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THE SUGAR-CAMP AND AFTER 







He dropped the flag and ran. 


Page 31 




THE SUGAR-CAMP 

AND AFTER 


By 

REV. HENRY S. SPALDING, S.J. 

Author of “The Old Mill on the Withrose,” “The Marks 
of the Bear Claws,” “ The Race for 
Copper Island,” etc. 


New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

Publishers of Benziger’s Magazine 
1912 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR: 


THE OLD MILL ON THE WITH ROSE. i2mo, 

cloth, with Frontispiece. $0.85 

THE MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS, ismo, 

cloth, with Frontispiece 0.85 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. i2mo, 

cloth, with Frontispiece 0.85 

THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. i2mo, 

cloth, with Frontispiece 0.85 

THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. i2mo, 
cloth, with Frontispiece 0.85 


For sale by all Catholic booksellers, or mailed on receipt 
of price by the publishers 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

New York Cincinnati Chicago 

36-38 Barclay St. 343 Main St. 214-216 W. Monroe St. 


Copyright, 1912, by Benziger Brothers 


ft. 

©CI.A328323 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Striking a Bargain .... 7 

II. Kevin Bolt 17 

III. Flagging the Nickel Plate . . 29 

IV. A Fight for a Name .... 38 

V. Maple-Sugar Time ...» 47 

VI. Father Dufrere’s Visitor . . 58 

VII. The Sugar-Camp 67 

VIII. Trouble in the Sugar-Camp . 79 

IX. The Little Detective ... 94 

X. Found 109 

XI. Good-By to the Sugar-Camp . 118 

XII. Difficulties 128 

XIII. A New Friend of the Family . 138 

XIV. Back to Kentucky . . . .150 

XV. The Beam in Thy Brother's Eye 162 

XVI. Some of Mr. Tumble-Bug's 

Friends 173 


5 


6 


Contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XVII. Another Surprise for the Boys 183 

XVIII. The Scarabeus 193 

XIX. Taking Revenge 200 

XX. Rescue and Discoveries . . . 209 

XXI. Mr. Bell’s Prediction . . .218 

XXII. Names in Letters of Gold . . 226 


The Sugar-Camp and After 


CHAPTER I 

STRIKING A BARGAIN 

“^JP TO some mischief.” 

Raymond Bolt did not stop to answer this 
half-question, half-insinuation, of his mother. In 
fact, he was not a little piqued by the remark. 
Was he not fourteen? Was he not in the eighth 
grade ? Had he not been promised long pants ? It 
was well enough for her to read his thoughts when 
he was a little boy; but he was too big now to 
be treated as a child. The remark had hurt, be- 
cause it came so close to the truth. 

Raymond Bolt certainly wished to let no one 
into his secret. Mounting the stairs he quickly 
locked the door, took down an old flag from the 
wall, tore off the faded cambric stripes, and pro- 
ceeded to fasten a small handkerchief to the 
7 


8 


Striking a Bargain 


wooden strip. The boy stood waving the hand- 
kerchief over his head, then paused; something 
was out of proportion. He took the handkerchief 
off; it was too small. Five minutes later he was 
dashing away from home towards Jefferson 
Street. 

You haven’t heard of Jefferson Street? — then 
you know little of Chicago. It isn’t one of the 
fashionable drives near the lake, or through the 
parks; nor is it in the residence district; nor do 
the great sky-scrapers rise along its sides. Jeffer- 
son Street, if you must know, is in the heart of 
the Ghetto. It is the bargain center of the Jewish 
venders and merchants. Things are piled every- 
where on Jefferson Street. The shelves are full of 
merchandise, the counters are full, the floors are 
full; nay more, the sidewalks and streets are all 
but full, so that one picks his way with difficulty 
along the sidewalks, and the driver can scarcely 
zigzag through the streets. You can buy every- 
thing and anything on Jefferson Street — faded 
dry-goods and soiled dry-goods, second-hand 
clothes and misfit clothes, rusty hardware and 
broken tinware, old shoes and odd shoes, decayed 


Striking a Bargain 


9 


vegetables, half-rotten fruit, and putrid fish. Yet, 
if you know what you want, and how to buy it, 
and are not too particular about sights and smells, 
you can drive good bargains on Jefferson Street. 

Jefferson Street was a familiar sight to Ray- 
mond Bolt. Once he had bought a cap, a real 
good cap that served its purpose all winter, for 
seven cents; at another time he had purchased a 
pair of trousers for thirty-four cents. Then, too, 
he always made friends with the Jewish mer- 
chants ; they resembled so much the pictures in his 
Bible History. He frequently made a dime by 
delivering parcels for a Jewish cap manufacturer, 
who had his establishment near the Bolt home- 
stead. So, to Jefferson Street ran Raymond Bolt. 

“I want a yard of some kind of white stuff,” 
said he, walking up to the counter of a Jewish 
merchant. 

A clerk unfolded a roll and, displaying it be- 
fore the youth, replied : “ten cents a yard.” 

“Too much,” protested Raymond with a slight 
whistle. 

“We have cotton for five cents a yard,” ex- 
plained the clerk. 


io Striking a Bargain 

“Let me see it;” and the boy examined the 
texture with all the gravity of an experienced 
merchant. “Nothing cheaper than this?” he 
asked. 

“Do you want us to give it to you?” was the 
sharp reply. 

“No; but I am looking for a bargain.” 

The two argued and discussed prices, while Mr. 
Klein, the owner of the store, listened and ob- 
served. It was his boast that few people left 
his store without making a purchase ; he was de- 
termined not to let the boy escape. 

“Jes’ vate a minute,” he said. “I vill get vat 
you vant.” He went to the street and in a second 
returned carrying a roll of cheese-cloth. “Here, 
I vill give you a bargain, vone cent a yard.” 

Snow had filtered in upon the cloth, rain had 
dripped upon it from the awning, dust and dirt 
and soot had besmeared it. Only the day before 
had the Jew debated with himself about cutting 
off the outer layer so as to show the quality of the 
goods. If he could sell this damaged part for a 
cent, instead of throwing it away, he would be 
just a cent richer. 


Striking a Bargain 


ii 


Young Bolt struck an attitude and assumed 
a serious look. To observe him one would have 
thought that he was pleading for his life. “Pretty 
dirty,” he objected. 

“Vone cent; only vone cent,” said the Jew. 

“Won’t you cut off the dirty part and give me 
a clean piece ?” 

“For five cents? — ya!” 

Raymond was still serious. He tossed his cap 
back upon his head, while all the time the Jew 
glanced at his regular features, his bright face, 
his thick, dark hair. 

“Only vone cent — vat you want? Only vone 
cent !” argued the Jew. 

“I am afraid that the ” here Bolt suddenly 

stopped, for no one was to know what he wished 
to do with the yard of cotton. 

“Vich vill you take,” resumed the Jew, “vich 
vill you take ; de soiled piece for vone cent, or the 
good piece for five cents ?” 

The boy suddenly concluded that he did not 
need a yard ; he could cut away the part that was 
most soiled and still have enough for his purpose. 
“I’ll take the cent’s worth,” said he. 


12 


Striking a Bargain 


The venerable old Jew came up to him, put his 
long, thin, index finger under the lad’s nose and 
said: “You vill vone day be a merchant, a rich 
merchant.” There was a special emphasis upon 
the word rich. Years afterwards the assuring 
words of the friendly Jew came back to him: 
“You vill vone day be a merchant, a rich mer- 
chant.” 

Handing the parcel to the purchaser the Jew 
remarked: “De vapping-paper and de string vill 
almost take avay all de profit.” Then he shook 
hands with the boy. “You vas making a good 
bargain,” were his parting words. 

Nearby was a hardware store with numerous 
articles on wooden trays along the sidewalk. 
“What are these tacks worth?” asked the lad of 
the Jewish keeper. 

“Vone cent a package ; seven for a nickel,” was 
the low nasal reply. 

“But I want only four tacks,” put in the 
boy. 

The Jew was disgusted. “Take ’em, take ’em,” 
he repeated. 

The boy deliberately counted them as he picked 


Striking a Bargain 13 

up four rusty tacks from the tray. “Thanks/’ 
said he, as he walked away. 

Near the corner of Jefferson and Twelfth 
Streets a Greek fruit-seller was crying: “Eight 
cents a dozen, eight cents a dozen.” After getting 
both the cloth and tacks for one cent, Raymond 
Bolt felt that he could afford to spend four cents 
for bananas. 

■Til take half a dozen bananas,” said he, point- 
ing to a large yellow bunch without speck or flaw. 

The Greek picked up another half dozen and 
was about to thrust them into a paper sack when 
the boy cried : “You don’t fool me! I want these 
good ones.” 

Raymond Bolt knew the trick of the peddlers. 
On one side of a wagon they display samples of 
the most tempting fruit, while some that are half 
rotten, or decayed, or not ripe are partly concealed 
beneath a little straw. You order from the 
tempting sample; but if you are not watch- 
ing you get the very inferior kind, and are 
not aware of the deceit until you open your sack 
at home. 

“Deze is fifteen cents,” explained the Greek, 


14 


Striking a Bargain 


pointing to the choice bananas. “Deze is eight 
cents,” and his hand removed some of the straw 
from the puny, half rotten pile. 

“Then why don’t you put the sign in the right 
place,” protested the young buyer. In fact the 
pine board marked “eight cents” was a trifle 
closer to the good fruit than the inferior article; 
but the Greek was always most willing to explain 
the mistake in case the buyer discovered it. Then 
he was ready for a bargain, and if you were a 
clever purchaser you could get the very finest 
fruit at the lowest price. 

Raymond Bolt knew all this. He offered the 
man four cents for six good bananas, then four 
cents for five. After considerable chaffering he 
struck a bargain, and got his pick of three 
bananas from the poorer pile for two cents. He 
treated Colnon Myers, whom he met on Twelfth 
Street, mumbled something about having fun, and 
was soon back in his room. 

With the rusty tacks he fastened the soiled 
cheese-cloth on the flag-stick, and, watching his 
chance, slipped away without being observed by 
his mother. 


Striking a Bargain 


15 


On the following morning when Sister Dolores, 
the teacher of the eighth grade, passed through 
the schoolyard she noticed that the boys were 
gathered in clusters discussing some matter of 
general interest : Raymond Bolt had disappeared ! 

The nun, who had already heard the news from 
the boy’s parents, stood in the middle of a group 
to listen to the explanations of the mystery. 

Hosty and Walsh were afraid that he had 
fallen into the river. Kohnen, Sweeny, and Pol- 
lard thought that he had met with some accident, 
but could not explain why the police had been 
unable to find any traces of the disaster. Accord- 
ing to Michael Hickey, Raymond had once 
boasted that he could swim across Lake Michigan ; 
perhaps he had tried it. But all agreed that 
among other difficulties the very cold weather of 
late would have deterred the boy from making the 
attempt. Nor would any accept the theory of 
Jones, who frequented five-cent theaters, that the 
missing boy had gone west to hunt “Injuns.” 

When asked her opinion Sister Dolores could 
give no solution ; but she took the occasion to re- 
call that the Guardian Angel would look after the 


i6 


Striking a Bargain 


safety of the boy ; for he had been an example to 
his companions. She then reminded them of their 
duty to pray for him, and bade the boys follow 
her into the church, where all knelt and prayed for 
Raymond Bolt. 


CHAPTER II 


KEVIN BOLT 

^pHE life of Kevin Bolt had been snapped like 
a reed. In the great car strike in Chicago 
he had defied a hundred men. Bricks had crushed 
against the car, which he had been ordered to 
carry through the heart of the strike district ; pis- 
tols had been pointed into his face; strong hands 
had sought to drag him from the platform, but 
undaunted and undismayed he had taken the car 
to its destination. His brave act had saved the 
day for the company. 

When a policeman he had time and again faced 
danger, as the three medals which he wore on 
his watch fob proved. Yesterday he felt that no 
power on earth could frighten him or make him 
swerve from duty. But now his spirit, his very 
life, was broken. A great unseen force was crush- 
ing out his life. He could hear the cries and 
threats of men during the awful strike, he could 
see the cold, glittering knife which one raised 
1 7 


i8 


Kevin Bolt 


above him ; but now the power was invisible — that 
power was a Trust. 

Some years previously Kevin Bolt had resigned 
from the police force to enter the employment of 
the Phenix Concrete Company. After learning 
every detail of the work he was made a foreman. 
He saved his money until he felt that he could 
venture into business for himself. Then the en- 
gines, the complicated forces of the Trust, were 
set to work against him. He had underbid the 
Trust and got a job of constructing a large con- 
crete factory. He ordered cement from ten dif- 
ferent quarters, but in every instance sale was re- 
fused. From a dozen foundries he had ordered 
the iron rods for the reinforcement, but here again 
no order was filled. All at once he realized the 
mistake he had made. He could not buy material ; 
his money was forfeited and he was a ruined man. 
The labor of his life was gone. He knew that he 
could get no work — that is, the work for which 
he was best fitted. All this change of fortune had 
come about in a few weeks, and now he was a 
ruined man. 

Shortly after his plans had been frustrated by 


Kevin Bolt 


19 

the Trust a Concrete Exhibition was held in 
the city at the great Colosseum. Even experts 
were surprised at the varied and useful purposes 
to which concrete could be applied. There were 
designs for concrete houses for the living and con- 
crete vaults for the dead ; concrete flooring, rein- 
forced and guaranteed to sustain ten times the 
weight of any other floor, variegated concrete 
blocks and tiles, tinted to any color and made 
to imitate the most costly mosaics; plans of con- 
crete roofs, waterproof and protected from tem- 
perature cracks and all ravages of wind and 
weather; concrete panels with perfect imitations 
of the white or colored marble; even concrete 
boats floated in miniature lakes. There were many 
varieties of water-proofing by which concrete 
buildings could be protected from dust and 
dampness and made comfortable and sanitary; 
there were samples to prove that concrete could be 
molded into the most artistic forms for cornices 
and capitals. Literature was distributed at the 
various booths with the information that we lived 
in an age of concrete, that concrete was to sup- 
plant iron, stone, and wood, in every form of 
construction. 


20 


Kevin Bolt 


Such were a few of the sights that caught the 
attention of Kevin Bolt at the Chicago Concrete 
Exhibition. He, however, was no idle spectator 
of the various booths. He had come for a pur- 
pose, and before he left the Colosseum his resolu- 
tion was taken. Knowing that it would be impos- 
sible for him to conduct any business in Chicago 
he resolved to leave the city and to reside in some 
obscure country place where he would be free 
from the molestations of the Trust. Nor was it 
difficult for him to select the exact work upon 
which he would engage. He resolved to patent a 
mold for concrete fence posts. 

Although it was dark when he reached home, 
he hastened at once to the basement, threw off his 
coat, and with hammer and tin began to fashion 
a mold. This finished he could not rest until 
he had seen the first product of his invention. He 
went out to a yard along the river, roused the 
keeper, and bought a sack of sand, carrying it 
home on his shoulders. Since he knew the exact 
proportion of sand and cement to use, and the 
amount of water necessary to make the mixture 
run into the mold and at the same time to 


Kevin Bolt 


21 


crystallize and harden rapidly, he lost no time in 
experimenting. 

The mold was soon filled with the liquid con- 
crete which penetrated into every crevice. In an 
hour it would harden. Kevin Bolt could not rest 
until he had seen the finished product ; so he lit his 
pipe and waited. The mold was opened; the 
crystallization was perfect; Kevin Bolt went to 
rest believing that his fortune was made. 

Busy days followed. The mold was perfected, 
a patent lawyer was consulted, a folder was 
printed giving full details of the post and the cost 
of manufacture. It was the intention of the in- 
ventor to supply molds to farmers with instruc- 
tions to make posts for their own use. The mere 
thought of again working in the concrete indus- 
try, and at the same time of frustrating any 
further opposition of the Trust, brought back 
hope and courage to his heart. He was in the 
best of humor as he went home one night, only to 
hear the report that his young son Raymond had 
not come in for supper, and that the mother was 
worried about the absent boy. Taking a hasty 
meal he started in search of the lad. 


22 


Kevin Bolt 


For two nights and two days every effort was 
made to learn something of Raymond Bolt. The 
father, as the hero of the great strike, was known 
to every policeman on the force, to every member 
of the fire department, to every keeper of a bridge. 
Kevin Bolt wandered over to the fire department 
on the second evening to chat with “the boys,” as 
he called them, and unburdened his troubles; 
then he stopped and talked with big Jerry Sulli- 
van, the detective, who had sought in every pos- 
sible place along Canal Street for the missing 
boy ; then to the snug and cozy little den of Mike 
Garraghan, the tender of the Twelfth Street 
Bridge, where he lit his pipe and rehearsed his 
troubles. 

“Sure,” said Mike with characteristic faith and 
belief in Providence, “you were making too much 
money, and getting proud; and the Lord has just 
called you down a little and laid His hand heavy 
upon you, before you’d give yourself to Mammon 
and the devil, and forget all your old friends, and 
leave the Ancient Order of Hibernians, and per- 
haps forsake God’s Holy Church as the Malloys 
done.” 


Kevin Bolt 


23 


“I could stand the loss of the money and con- 
tracts, for I’m still strong and healthy, and have 
an invention that will make me an honest living,” 
put in Kevin, “but the boy, what has become of 
the boy ?” 

There was a silence while Barney Garry, the as- 
sistant tender, stirred the coals in the little stove ; 
for it was a cold evening in January, and the 
small frame house of the bridge keeper was ill sit- 
uated to such weather. 

“And a good boy he was, God bless him,” said 
honest Mike, “and coming to think of it, you 
didn’t move away from Canal Street when you 
made money, and never yet was there a man 
you didn’t speak to even when you was getting 
rich.” 

“And you didn’t go into politics, either,” in- 
terrupted Barney, “and try to be alderman and 
jine the grafters in the city hall.” 

Kevin was not moved by these compliments; 
nor did he reply. 

“Coming back to the boy,” resumed the keeper, 
“he was as good as most of them — not wild or 
spoiled. Not a coward either, but not afraid 


24 


Kevin Bolt 


of any one his size or over his size. I seen him 
one day just like an angel serving at the altar at 
Holy Mass, and the next morning he was whip- 
ping two young toughs most as big as himself, be- 
cause, as he said to Jerry Sullivan, ‘they made 
faces at the priest/ ” 

“And you were speaking of my running for 
alderman and grafting in the city hall/ > resumed 
Kevin. “If my plans for the concrete factory 
had hung together I’d be thinking of running 
for the office ” 

“And not a mother’s son could beat you,” put 
in Barney. 

“I’ve tried to be true to my friends and I be- 
lieve that they’d help me at the polls. But I’d not 
join the city hall gang. I’d use the power of my 
office against the Yonds and the like of them that 
run sweatshops; and I’d clean out every pants 
factory and every cap factory on Willow Street. 
I’d start settlements and send poor families off to 
the farms. Not a boy or girl would work in a 
sweatshop from morning to night — not if Kevin 
Bolt was alderman.” 

The fire-tug whistled. Mike Garraghan turned 


Kevin Bolt 


25 


the lever which opened the draw-bridge, and sig- 
naled to the crew as the boat cut its way through 
the floating ice. 

When the delayed traffic had worked its way 
across the bridge the keeper lowered the red 
danger signal and returned to the warmth of the 
cabin. 

“Cold it is to-night/' he remarked, “and the 
boys on the tug will have a devil of a time keep- 
ing the river open." 

“Yes, it is cold," sighed Kevin, “and that makes 
me think of where the boy is sleeping." 

“The angels will take care of him," were the 
assuring words of honest Mike Garraghan, al- 
ways ready to invoke the supernatural. 

“But in the meanwhile the boy's mother will 
die of grief." 

“If he’d been wild, or if it was swimming time," 
added Barney, “one could expect something to 
happen to him." 

“There’s lots of things that could happen," 
argued Mike, “but then he would be found ; and 
I am sure he is not at the bottom of the 
river.” 


26 


Kevin Bolt 


“I don’t believe he is,” acknowledged the 
father ; “something tells me that he is living — but 
where can he be ?” 

“He’s not the likes to run away from home,” 
claimed Garraghan. 

“I can’t say he was an angel,” acknowledged 
the father, “though his mother was awful proud 
of him when she saw him in the white cassock 
swinging the censer, and she prayed most every 
hour for him to be a priest. That was the good 
side of him ; but he wasn’t all angel, or rather he 
had some of the bad angel in him. He was game 
to fight, but never bore a grudge against any one 
long. He was quick with the boxing gloves and 
could stand up before two of his size at the same 
time; but he wasn’t a bad boy. He didn’t have 
bad habits, and never smoked or cursed ; and if he 
had a little fight in him — well, he takes after the 
old man;” — and with these words Kevin Bolt 
looked at the three medals hanging from his 
fob. 

“A bad night it is,” said the keeper coming in 
a second time from the draw-bridge when the 
fire-tug had returned. “No sleep to-night, Bar- 


Kevin Bolt 


27 


ney,” he continued, “for the tug will have to make 
the trip every half hour to keep the river open. 
Now don’t think of the boy,” he pleaded with 
Kevin, “by all that’s holy, he is in the angels’ 
keeping.” 

Mike Garraghan was uttering no idle words; 
he meant to comfort his friend, to awaken 
thoughts of confidence in God and the angels. His 
words had the desired effect, and Kevin Bolt arose 
with a lighter heart and greater hope. 

“If you could only tell him where the boy is,” 
said Barney. 

“Sure, when Jerry Sullivan and the greatest de- 
tectives and policemen in the whole world couldn’t 
find the boy, how can poor Mike Garraghan, a 
bridge-keeper, lay a hand on him?” 

“If he is only safe,” put in the father; “but 
we’ve waited now for two days, with his mother 
crying her eyes out, and we can’t bear it much 
longer. Still I am feeling better after the talk.” 
The door opened and a great gust of snow came 
whirling in. 

“Here is your daughter after you to take you 
home,” cried Garraghan, as a young girl of four- 


28 


Kevin Bolt 


teen rushed through the open door and, all 
breathless, tried to speak. 

“My God!” cried the father, “is he dead?” 

“No !” gasped the girl, “he’s ” 

“Where?” 

“In — in ! Let me rest, I’ve run — all the way—' 
from home,” she faintly muttered. 


CHAPTER III 


FLAGGING THE NICKEL PLATE 

an engineer Pat Casey had a record. Call 
it luck, call it experience, call it devotion to 
duty — explain it as you will; but no other man 
on the line had such a record ; for not once during 
many years of service had he met with the slight- 
est accident. 

When the Nickel Plate Railroad from Chicago 
to New York announced that it would reduce the 
time and make the trip in eighteen hours, 
every engineer on the road knew that Pat 
Casey and his engine would make the first run to 
Cleveland. 

No one was prouder of the engineer than his 
young neighbor, Raymond Bolt. The boy fre- 
quently walked to the yard with him, carrying the 
man’s pail or wearing his buckskin gloves. Often, 
too, the boy would sit at the Twelfth Street cross- 
ing and watch the great engine rush by, for even 
in the city along the elevated tracks the Nickel 
29 


30 Flagging the Nickel Plate 

Plate ran at high speed. The engine seemed alive 
and conscious of the task before it, conscious of its 
duty, conscious of the fact that the patronage of 
the road depended to a large extent on the success 
of the fast schedule. 

Just because he had enjoyed the intimate 
friendship of Pat Casey, Raymond Bolt concluded 
that it would not be wrong to play a trick upon 
the engineer. He decided to flag the Nickel Plate. 
What fun it would be on the return of the train 
to let Mr. Casey know who had stopped the 
engine. 

Concealing himself in a culvert just where the 
tracks passed through the large freight yards, 
young Bolt awaited with his white flag. Far up 
the tracks appeared the headlights and the snort- 
ing monster was gathering speed and strength for 
the race to Cleveland, where the first run ended. 
Over the track to and fro waved the signal of 
danger. Raymond laughed loud as he saw the 
face of Casey pressed against the glass of the look- 
out and heard the grinding of the wheels upon the 
tracks as the train came to a halt. 

Then it suddenly dawned upon the boy that he 


Flagging the Nickel Plate 31 

had committed an offence against the law; he 
dropped the flag and ran. The engineer, seeing 
that he had been the victim of a joke and alto- 
gether unconscious of the author, leaped from the 
engine to pursue the lad. Young Bolt, too quick 
for the irate engineer, ran in among some freight 
cars, and jumped into one that was standing on a 
sidetrack. 

At one end of the car, behind a stack of boxes 
was some straw ; the boy crawled beneath it and 
was completely covered. 

It was a through freight train that he had 
boarded. All in vain did he try to open the door 
of the car when he saw that the freight was leav- 
ing Chicago. Then darkness came on. Only once 
did the train stop, and then the lad was asleep. 
On the following morning, looking out from his 
moving prison, he saw a large river below, and a 
few minutes later he read the word “Louisville” 
on many warehouses and stores. 

For hours the car stood on the tracks until 
finally the door was swung back and unobserved 
the prisoner leaped to the ground. With twelve 
cents which he had in his pocket he bought a loaf 


32 Flagging the Nickel Plate 

of bread and some cheese and crept back among 
the cars. 

“Gib me dat bread !” 

Raymond looked up and saw a negro dressed 
in rags. “No, sir,” he protested, “I didn’t steal 
it.” 

“Gib it to me,” and with this the negro grabbed 
the paper. 

“Please, sir, I haven’t had any breakfast.” 

“Go ’long, boy; youse kin git lots ub money.” 

“No, sir.” 

“Go ’long ’bout yose business,” and the negro 
struck at the lad, who saved himself by quickly 
ducking. 

“Heah, Mr. Copper, said the negro, address- 
ing a policeman, “dis heah boy done gone and 
grabbed my bread f’om my han’s an’ run.” 

Raymond Bolt was by no means timid ; but this 
was a strange experience. Under the circumstances 
he was too confused to explain matters just as 
they had happened. 

The negro now turned and asked the officer 
not to arrest the boy. Perhaps this was his first 
offense and perhaps he was hungry. 


Flagging the Nickel Plate 33 

“You get away from this freight depot, and the 
next time I see you here I’ll give you a ride. Do 
you hear that?” 

Raymond was only too glad to be free, so he 
thought it better not to explain further. He got 
a drink of water at a fountain near by, and then 
decided to look for a church to ask help of the 
priest. While going along he espied two nuns. At 
once his heart was full of confidence. True, the 
Sisters did not wear the same habit that the teach- 
ers of Holy Family School wore; still he felt that 
he could tell his troubles to them and that they 
would assist him. 

“Good morning, Sisters,” said he, with his 
brightest smile; “I haven’t had any breakfast — 
will you please give me a dime?” 

The younger of the two nuns, who happened 
to be nearer to the lad, opened her pocket-book 
and took out the required sum. 

“Why are you not at school?” said the other 
Sister to the little beggar. 

“I wish I was at school,” replied the boy 
piteously. 

Quite a debate followed between the two relig- 


34 Flagging the Nickel Plate 

ious, during which the boy was referred to as a 
young tramp, as disobedient, and as playing truant. 
Raymond would have fought for his honor with 
any one else; but to hear the Sisters branding 
him as a tramp was more than he could bear, so 
he turned and ran at full speed until he was lost 
to sight. 

His courage was broken now and he wandered 
aimlessly along the streets, almost forgetting his 
hunger in his extreme misery. Suddenly the fire 
of life and energy leaped into his heart and face. 
A truck was passing loaded with boxes, on one 
of which he read the magic word ‘‘Chicago.” 
Come what would he would follow that box. 

Slowly the dray moved along the street; just as 
slowly the boy followed. The dray stopped at a 
railroad crossing, and on the street stopped the 
boy. The dray turned into the freight yard, and 
into the freight yard turned the boy. The box 
was thrown upon a platform; and near the box 
the boy took his position with his eyes riveted 
upon the magic word “Chicago.” 

“Get out of this yard ! I reckon you are one 


Flagging the Nickel Plate 35 

of those young thieves who have been stealing 
from the freight cars” — with these words the 
keeper struck at the boy, who dodged and ran. 

‘Til have you pinched if I catch you again,” 
cried out the man. 

But Raymond Bolt was not to be frightened 
away from the box with the magic word. That 
box would go to Chicago and he would go with 
it. Ten minutes later a dark form was working 
its way among the cars until finally young Bolt 
was in a position to watch the box. 

“Here again : but I’ve got you this time !” the 
keeper had stolen up to the boy and with an oath 
and a threat seized him by the coat. 

Terrified by the threat and the apprehension of 
danger, the boy escaped with a bound. 

But the box with the magic word could not be 
abandoned. Again a dark object was creeping 
along; this time under the platform. Through a 
crack in the boards the boy could read the word 
“Chicago.” If he had observed more closely he 
would have seen the two letters “Ky.” written un- 
der the word ; but he was oblivious to all else. 
He had heard of but one Chicago, and little 


36 Flagging the Nickel Plate 

dreamed of the small town which bore the same 
name. 

Again his heart gave a bound. The box was 
lifted on a truck; beneath the platform the boy 
followed. Into a freight car the box was thrown, 
and into the same car safe and unobserved the boy 
crept. 

And now followed minutes of acute anxiety. 
Men came into the car, walked among the boxes, 
took weight and numbers and names. Things 
were rearranged and thrown from one side to the 
other. From one hiding-place to another the boy 
managed to creep ; once he had to cross from an 
open space for a new refuge, but the attendant 
was busy and did not observe him. 

“The boys in this neighborhood are getting to 
be regular little dare-devils. They walk right into 
the freight depot and steal under your eyes,” said 
the keeper to one of the truckmen. “I caught one 
and was going to give him a clubbing when he 
jerked away from me. Let me get him again, 
and he’ll not forget the lesson I’ll teach him.” 

Raymond threw himself close to the side of the 
car as he heard this threat. 


Flagging the Nickel Plate 3 7 

‘Til club the brains out of him,” and with this 
repetition of the dire punishment the man 
slammed the door and locked it. Raymond Bolt 
was in the prison of his choice. 


CHAPTER IV 


A FIGHT FOR A NAME 

“^JHICAGO! — All out for Chicago, and don’t 
forget your baggage!” The frosted door 
of the freight car rasped as it was thrown back. 
“Wake up!” and with these words husky John 
Speeks rolled a keg of nails out on the platform. 
“And you wake up! and don’t forget your bag- 
gage !” and out went keg number two. “Chicago ! 
Chicago ! and all out for Chicago and don’t forget 
your baggage !” There was a special emphasis on 
the last word as keg number three was tumbled 
out on the platform with its uncomplaining com- 
panions. 

Not without reason did honest John Speeks call 
out the stations and address imaginary travellers. 
For twenty years he had been a faithful brake- 
man on the local freight between Louisville, Ky., 
and Greensburg. The one ambition of his life 
was to be a conductor. Often had he sent in his 
application, until at last his perseverance and 
38 


A Fight for a Name 


39 


fidelity had won recognition. True, the passenger 
service would not be large, and Speeks would 
have to assist when the freight or express ship- 
ments were heavy ; still he would be known as the 
conductor on the single coach, which was attached 
to the local freight train. 

“All aboard !” The future conductor had sig- 
naled to the engineer, and was just about to close 
the door of the freight car when he observed a 
motion among the boxes. “Darn it ! I got a pas- 
senger/’ he exclaimed, “and the youngest tramp 
I’ve seen in my born days.” Before he could 
finish his soliloquy the young passenger had 
slipped from the car and disappeared around the 
corner of the depot. Speeks leaped into his 
caboose, and the train went on. 

Raymond Bolt was the name of the youthful 
passenger who had just been called a tramp. 
Chilled, haggard, and hungry, with soiled clothes, 
with hands and face unwashed, and hair unkempt, 
the very picture of misery, he did not wait to 
deny that he belonged to the class of vagrants. It 
took him some time to recover from his surprise. 
His heart had given a leap when he heard the 


40 


A Fight for a Name 


word “Chicago,” and he fully believed that he was 
back in the city on the lakes. 

He expected to see the familiar sights of his 
native city before him; the network of railroads 
leading out from the passenger and freight depots ; 
the river with its screeching tugs and lake vessels ; 
the great grain elevators which loomed up in 
front of his home and greeted him each morning ; 
the yards of scrap iron where Jewish venders 
stored away their heaps of rusty pipes, boilers, and 
stoves. He expected to see in the distance the 
towers of the wholesale stores, hotels, and depots ; 
he expected to see crowds of men, women, and 
children, and street cars packed to their utmost 
capacity, and the long procession of drays which 
each day came lumbering down the street. 

But with his back against the small station he 
beheld a view that was new and strange. Just in 
front of him there was a road, and to the left half 
a dozen wooden cottages. Along the road was a 
fence running in a zigzag and made of pieces of 
wood, but without any post or nails. He was yet 
to learn the name of a rail fence. Beyond the 
fence was a large field, bare, brown, and frosted. 


A Fight for a Name 


4i 


Through the middle of the field ran a small stream 
over which hung a white vapor. Further on rose 
a range of mountains, — at least they appeared to 
fit with the boy’s ideas of a mountain. 

What could it all mean ? Where had fortune or 
rather misfortune carried the boy? He had crept 
into a freight car and behind a box marked “Chi- 
cago!” The man had called out “Chicago!” 
Where could he be? As he stood in the chill 
morning, watching the vapor from the stream and 
the mountains beyond the stream, he caught sight 
of another boy, coming from one of the cottages 
and starting down the road toward him. 

“Say, kid ! Where am I ?” he asked, as the boy 
drew near. 

“I ain’t no kid!” 

“Well, where am I?” 

“What did you come here for, if you didn’t 
know the place ?” was the retort. 

“That’s none of your business ! Can’t you tell 
me where I am?” 

“Find out for yourself, if it’s none of my 
business !” 

Both boys were hungry and sleepy and cold; 


42 A Fight for a Name 

and in no humor for a pleasant meeting or en- 
counter. 

“You’re a ninny!” cried out Bolt, “you don’t 
know the name of your own town !” 

“I have licked every boy in Chicago. You ask 
the old man ; and if you get sassy I’ll lick you !” 
was the reply. 

“What did you call the place?” 

“Chicago! and you darn’t say a word against 
it !” 

“Ah ! go on ! I lived fourteen years in Chicago !” 

“You didn’t, either. I has been here four 
months and ain’t seed you.” 

“This ain’t Chicago !” 

“ ’Tis, too!” 

“Where are your railroads? and street cars? 
and river and houses ? Chicago !” muttered young 
Bolt with contempt. 

“Well, it is Chicago; and if you say it ain’t I’ll 
lick you right here.” 

“I ain’t afraid of you, and it ain’t Chicago ! and 
you couldn’t whip me if you tried.” 

Now, young Bill Applegate was the bully of 
the town and school. Fighting was his trade ; and 


A Fight for a Name 


43 


he had not exaggerated when he claimed to have 
been the hero among all his companions. Young 
Bolt was an adept with boxing gloves, and it must 
be confessed that he was not facing his first real 
fight. He needed all his skill, for he was lighter 
than his opponent and was in no condition for a 
fistic battle. He did not wish to fight; but this 
was not Chicago, and say so he would, even if he 
had to fight for the honor of his city. 

Bill Applegate expected to deliver a few blows, 
and then proceed to the hayrick to drive home the 
cow. 

“This is Chicago,” said he advancing toward 
his foe. 

“This ain’t Chicago !” affirmed the other. 

“It is Chicago! and take that for saying it 
ain’t.” Young Applegate swung at Bolt’s head 
and was quite surprised to find nothing in front 
of him, for the latter had quickly ducked, and on 
regaining his position struck Applegate under the 
right jaw. A sparring match followed, each being 
satisfied with guarding himself against any attack 
of his adversary. 

The cheek of Applegate was stung by the 


44 


A Fight for a Name 


fingers of Bolt, who delivered a whip stroke. 
Angered by the pain the larger boy threw himself 
upon his foe and brought him to the ground. 

“Say this is Chicago !” he cried. 

“This ain’t Chicago!” and Raymond was on 
his feet before his stronger opponent could take 
advantage of the fall. 

Applegate now fought furiously, and without 
any attempt at skill. He did not notice that his 
right eye was swollen, that the lobe of his left ear 
was bleeding; nor was Raymond conscious of the 
fact that the skin was rubbed from the knuckles of 
his hand. 

Attracted by the voices of the two combatants, 
Mrs. Applegate ran down the road and urged her 
beloved son to kill the stranger. Soon the father, 
who was lame, and whose right foot struck out at 
right angles to his left, hobbled toward the boys. 

“Fight on, game roosters ! Fight on !” were his 
words. Encouraged by the paternal and maternal 
presence, young Applegate made an effort to end 
the battle by one telling stroke : but he missed his 
aim and fell to the ground. 

Bolt was horrified to hear both father and 


A Fight for a Name 


45 


mother urge the son on with curses and oaths. He 
did not take advantage of his opponent, when the 
latter fell, but calmly waited, for he saw that 
Applegate was weakening. 

“This ain’t Chicago!” he affirmed between 
strokes, when the battle was renewed. 

“The boy is crazy !” muttered the father. 

“Crazy or no crazy, Tom Applegate,” put in 
the mother, “don’t you see that he is killing our 
son? Tom Applegate!” she continued, “stop that 
fight, or our son will be dead.” 

“It’s a fair fight, Liz, and nobody ain’t going 
to stop ’em.” 

“I wish you had stayed in jail,” cried the 
woman furiously. 

“And if you had been caught stealing the corn 
and chickens, you’d be in jail, too,” retorted the 
man. 

Then followed more curses, until the ears of 
young Bolt were fairly ringing. What kind of 
people were these strangers, where the father 
cursed the mother and was cursed in return ? 

“They is both game chickens ! — the best fight I 
ever seed !” said the man. 


46 


A Fight for a Name 


“Yes, and your son will be soon dead/’ cried 
the mother, again attempting to force her way 
between the combatants. 

“Stand back, Liz; stand back, and let the 
roosters fight. They is both weakening, and I 
do believe that our rooster will get whipped ; but 
he’s game, the Applegate rooster is game !” 

“I won’t stand this any longer! Tom Apple- 
gate, let me get between them boys.” 

“No, Liz, no; the fight is about over, and the 
Applegates is whipped — whipped fair and right! 
Now,” said the father, lifting up his son, who had 
fallen to the ground and was whimpering, “you 
have met your match and been whipped fair and 
square ; and it serves you right, for you have been 
bullying all the boys of the town.” 

But the wife fell to cursing the husband, and the 
husband cursed the wife; and the boy cursed both 
and said that he would have whipped the stranger 
if they had not interfered. 

Young Bolt could bear the blows; but the im- 
pious language warned him to hasten from such 
company. Faithful to the inspiration he turned, 
held his hands over his ears, and fled down the 
road from the village and the Applegates. 


CHAPTER V 


MAPLE-SUGAR TIME 

OOD, faithful, jovial Aunt Emily — for 
thirty years and more the cook at the 
parish residence of Saint Thomas’ Church ! Aunt 
Emily — she had no other name ! Just Aunt Emily 
— the old colored cook! Aunt Emily worked, 
and sang, and prayed ; and life went on as quietly 
as the river which ran by at the foot of the hill, 
and could be seen through the maple-trees. The 
very picture of contentment was Aunt Emily, with 
the conventional red handkerchief around her 
head, and her dress of red calico with great black 
spots. Only in the church did she appear ridicu- 
lous. Yet, it was not her behavior that attracted 
attention. She was a truly pious old soul, with 
deep faith and abiding love ; but her devotion could 
not enable her to escape attention. She always 
dressed up before going to church; and dressing 
up consisted in replacing the red handkerchief 
with a red hat of wondrous proportions crowned 
47 


48 


Maple-Sugar Time 

with a white ostrich feather, large and costly. 
Three months’ salary had faded away when Aunt 
Emily first caught sight of that hat and feather ; 
but the bargain had brought her a year of joy, and 
what did it matter if once in her life she had been 
a spendthrift. 

“I’se nebber seed so much rust in my bo’n 
days,” soliloquized Aunt Emily, as with a home- 
made brush of buckweed she washed the sides of 
a huge iron kettle. “An’ den it’ll be nuffin’ but 
bilin’ an’ bilin’ an’ bilin’ foh de nex’ forty days.” 

“Will you give me something to eat?” said a 
voice as footsteps were heard at the door of the 
woodshed. 

“Lan’ alive ! Tramps dis time ub de yare ! I’se 
a feedin’ tramps all de summar an’ now heah dey 
comes ’fore de snow am off de groun’. Lan’ alive ! 
De youngest tramp I ebber seed.” The old colored 
cook never turned any one from the door of her 
kitchen without a meal ; but she insisted on giving 
sound spiritual advice and motherly council while 
the transient visitors partook of her bounty. Al- 
though she was -too busy to prepare a meal for 
the new-comer she was not slow in giving him 


Maple-Sugar Time 


49 


the advice. “You ought foh ter be home wid 
yose mammy, ’stead ub trampin’ roun’ in de 
cole. Whar am youse f om ?” 

“Chicago.” 

“How long did youse lib dar?” 

“Almost fourteen years.” 

“Lan’ alive! Den youse knows my sister 
Sally.” 

Raymond understood at once that they were 
talking of different places, and, remembering the 
fight which he had the previous day, he decided to 
explain matters. “I’m from the other Chicago,” 
he answered, “the real one, the big city.” 

“What youse say?” and Aunt Emily dropped 
the scouring brush and stood looking at the 
stranger with evident surprise. 

“I passed through the little town called Chi- 
cago,” he continued; “but I am from the big city 
in Illinois.” 

“Dar ! Makin’ fun ub a poor ole nigger ; mak- 
in’ believe dat you’se f’om somewhar else. I 
knows yose tricks. You’se ’fraid dat yose mam- 
my ’ll fin’ youse.” 

“No — here the boy paused, for never before 


50 Maple-Sugar Time 

had he addressed a colored woman and was doubt- 
ful about the proper title. Failure in this respect 
might mean the loss of the meal which he so 
coveted. “No, madam/ 5 he said in an under- 
tone; “I am telling you the truth. I am from 
Chicago, the big city on Lake Michigan/ 5 

“Whar am dat place? 55 

“Lake Michigan. 55 

Now the old cook had absolutely no conception 
of a lake; the words of the young stranger made 
no impression on her mind. “Why done youse go 
an 5 run 5 way f 5 om home ? 55 she inquired. 

“I didn’t run away. 55 

“Den, why did youse lebe home? Is you got 
a mammy? 55 

“You mean have I got a mother? 55 

“Kose, dat’s what I 5 se means. 55 

“Yes — 55 this was too much, and the boy began 
to whimper. 

“Kose, I 5 se oughtn’t ter be a talkin’ ’bout yose 
mammy dat way; kose, I’se gib youse somethin’ 
to eat. I’se jes 5 let dat ole kittle stay in de shed 
an 5 soak. Come on ter de kitchen! But lan 5 
sakes alive! youse 5 s a young un!” 


Maple-Sugar Time 


51 

“I am nearly fourteen.” 

“De youngest tramp I’se ebber seed.” 

“I am not a tramp; but I must look like one.” 
Raymond was beginning to understand the old 
cook and to be more familiar. “Where am I?” 
he asked. 

“An’ youse don’t know whar youse is ?” 

“No, I don’t even know what State I am in. 
I got off the train at a place, and met a boy who 
said it was Chicago; then we had a fight, and I 
whipped the big ninny.” 

“Dat’s not right; it am ’ginst de ’mandments 
foh ter fight.” 

Any false statement might lose the good things 
which Aunt Emily was bringing from the pantry. 
“I know it was wrong, and I am sorry,” admitted 
the boy meekly. 

“Well, don’t fight no moah ; an’ dar am de best 
co’n bread youse ebber seed ; an’ dar am some cole 
chicken, an’ some buttah, an’ heah am some milk.” 

For many minutes young Bolt said not a word ; 
but while he ate he listened to Aunt Emily giving 
her family history. He was more amused than 
interested ; until finally the old negress approached 


52 


Maple-Sugar Time 


that event in her life when she became cook at 
the parish residence of St. Thomas’ Church. The 
church dated back to such a remote period that it 
seemed coeval with the ark. It had been built 
a hundred years and by some good bishop, whose 
name the young stranger failed to catch; nor 
could he understand the name of the present 
pastor. The location of the church, too, was a 
mystery. There were no houses within half a 
mile, so that Raymond wondered where the 
parishioners lived. 

The hostess had not seen the visitor make the 
Sign of the Cross and say grace before beginning 
his meal; but now when he repeated the act and 
devoutly said a prayer of thanksgiving she made 
no effort to conceal her joy. “Why, youse b’longs 
to our Church,” she cried out with delight. 

“I belong to the Catholic Church/’ he assented. 

“Den youse must wait foh de Fodder; I’se 
knows dat Fodder Defrere ’ll be awfully glad foh 
ter see you.” 

“Where is he?” asked the boy. 

“Down in de camp lookin’ ober de trees.” 

“I don’t understand,” acknowledged the boy. 


Maple-Sugar Time 53 

“He am lookin’ at the maple-trees in de woods, 
and getting de spiles ready.” 

Again the boy failed to understand. “Will you 
please let me know where I am ?” he asked, turn- 
ing the subject to something more interesting. 
“What State am I in?” 

“De ’Nited States — ha! ha! ha!” 

“Yes ! but what is the name of the State?” 

“Why, dis am Kentucky. I’se nebber in all 
my bo’n days seed a man who didn’t know what 
State he’s in.” 

“Yes, but you never heard of a man coming 
to a State the way I came.” 

“How am youse come ?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“Dar am de Fodder,” interrupted the old 
negress. “No — dat am a mistake,” she said as a 
neighbor approached the house and asked for the 
priest. He was informed that Father Dufrere was 
in the sugar camp, and turned away in that direc- 
tion. 

“Jes’ come ter de Fodder’s room, an’ he’ll be 
back tol-ably soon.” With these words the cook 
led the way across the yard to the residence of 


54 


Maple-Sugar Time 


the priest, a modest frame house with three rooms, 
in one of which a fire was burning in a large open 
grate. How warm and cozy the place seemed, al- 
though the room was carpetless and almost void 
of furniture ! The high narrow bedstead was un- 
like anything which the young stranger had ever 
seen. The shuck-bottom chairs, the rough oak 
table, the primitive bookcase, the white-washed 
walls, and the low windows with small panes of 
glass — all tended to impress the boy as singularly 
odd and interesting. 

On glancing around the room after the de- 
parture of the cook he espied a book which he had 
often seen upon the table of his parish priest, 
Father Byrne. Picking up the volume his eyes 
soon fell upon the word “Chicago.” Then he read 
the name of the Archbishop of Chicago, and look- 
ing on down the page he traced the names of each 
church until he came to that of his own parish, 
the “Holy Family.” 

The floodgates of tears were at once opened. 
The wandering boy was back home again. 

Half an hour later the pastor, Father Dufrere, 
entered the room and saw the boy asleep with 


Maple-Sugar Time 


55 


his fingers upon the page of the “Catholic Direc- 
tory/’ opened at “The Archdiocese of Chicago.” 

“Let me out! Let me out!” Raymond Bolt 
awoke. He was sitting before the open fireplace 
in the priest’s room, with the “Catholic Directory” 
in his hand; and there at his side sat venerable 
Father Dufrere. 

“I dreamed that I was in the freight car,” he 
explained. 

“Did you run away from home in a freight 
car?” 

“No, Father,” the boy was not the least em- 
barrassed in the presence of the priest ; but he was 
surprised to find the book and the sleeve of his 
coat wet with his tears. “I see that I have been 
crying,” he continued, “but I couldn’t help it when 
I saw the name of Father Byrne and the Holy 
Family Church.” 

“All the way from Chicago,” said the priest 
taking the open book from the boy. “Now, I un- 
derstand what Aunt Emily was trying to explain ; 
but I couldn’t imagine that you had come all the 
way from Chicago, Illinois.” 


56 


Maple-Sugar Time 


“Yes, that’s my home.” 

“And why did you run away?” 

Again the big tears gathered in the boy’s eyes. 
“I didn’t run away.” 

“Parents living?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Were they good to you?” The priest was try- 
ing to get at the cause of the trouble. 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Well, what did you do?” 

“Flagged the Nickel Plate.” 

“Why?” 

“Just to have some fun with Mr. Casey.” The 
boy was gaining courage now and the playful part 
of the prank was asserting itself. 

Gained over by the kindness of the priest the 
boy went on with his story as the two sat before 
the pleasant fire. He told the priest of the fight 
for the name and honor of his native city, of the 
long tramp over the country road, until he had 
spied the little church at the wayside, and finally 
of the bountiful repast of the old negro cook. 

In less than half an hour the priest had phoned 
to the nearest central, Balltown, and that same 


Maple-Sugar Time 57 

night a dispatch had announced that the boy was 
safe. 

That evening before the glowing fire the vener- 
able pastor of St. Thomas’ gave his young visitor 
an account of his church. As Father Dufrere 
spoke it seemed to Raymond that a light of heaven 
lit up the countenance of the saintly man. The 
church was small but the priest loved it, loved it 
for its people, loved it for its associations. As he 
had grown old and feeble his bishop offered 
him a parish in a city or town where labor would 
be milder. But the priest had pleaded to be left 
to work and die among his people. More than a 
century before had the Catholics from Maryland 
settled in the neighborhood of this church. Here 
had bishops and priests, men whose names are 
most sacred to the Catholics of Kentucky, labored 
with untiring zeal ; here had once been a seminary 
from whose walls many a devoted priest had gone 
forth to labor ; here had been gathered the orphans 
of the diocese. Only the church remained, and 
the people who loved the church, and the pastor 
who loved the people. 


CHAPTER VI 


FATHER DUFRERE'S VISITOR 

T^ATHER DUFRERE was sitting before the 
**“ old fashioned fireplace alternately looking at 
the glowing logs and scanning the pages of the 
“Catholic Weekly.” His attention was attracted 
by the grinding of wheels over the crisp snow in 
the front yard. A stranger alighted from a 
buggy, paid the driver, and walked up to the 
frame cottage. 

“My name is Bolt, Kevin Bolt, your Rever- 
ence,” said the man with a broad Irish accent, 
“and Eve come to get my lost boy, and to thank 
you for the kindness which you have shown.” 

“Plad you waited I would have sent him to you 
in a few days,” spoke the priest gently ; “but you 
are welcome to Kentucky and to old St. 
Thomas.” 

“Where is the lad?” asked the father, as he 
walked into the cheerful room. 

“Enjoying a rabbit hunt. He is carrying a gun 
58 


Father Dufrere’s Visitor 59 

at least; I doubt whether he will be able to bring 
down any game, as he has had no experience.” 

“1 have had troubles on troubles of late,” 
sighed the visitor, removing his overcoat. “Per- 
haps God has punished me for my pride. I 
thought that I could bear everything; but when 
the boy disappeared it all but broke my heart and 
his mother’s also.” 

“I knew that the dispatch would be most wel- 
come.” 

“Indeed it was, your Reverence, and we can 
never repay you for your thoughtfulness. The last 
word the boy’s mother said to me was to thank the 
good priest for his kindness.” 

“And you came all the way from Chicago to 
thank me; that is gratitude indeed.” 

“To be honest,” acknowledged Mr. Bolt, “I had 
a double purpose,” and with these words he be- 
gan to open a large valise. 

The visitor was in a communicative mood ; the 
priest was interested; the glowing fire invited 
friendly intercourse. Kevin Bolt went back to the 
story of his leaving Ireland, his part in the Chi- 
cago street car strike, his work for the Cement 


60 Father Dufrere’s Visitor 

Trust, his business venture and its sudden 
collapse,, the Concrete Exhibition, and finally 
came down to the topic of his invention. 
The priest became more interested; the inventor 
was enthusiastic. 

“You are a man of books and letters ; read this, 
your Reverence,” and Kevin Bolt placed a folder 
in the hands of the priest. 

Father Dufrere took his glasses from the 
mantle, and going over to the window read the 
following lines : 

“Reinforced concrete is the most durable ma- 
terial ever known to man. Wood will rot and burn. 
Iron used alone will rust. Stone, when taken 
from its bed, will decompose and chip. By your 
own experience you know that the cement con- 
crete structures of the ancients stand to-day as an 
enduring monument to a science that has now re- 
vived. 

“Cement concrete grows harder and gets better 
with age. The Pantheon at Rome is a striking 
proof of the durability and permanence of con- 
crete structure. It was built by Agrippa, 27 B. C. 
Its dome, with a 30-foot opening at the top and 


Father Dufrere’s Visitor 61 

spanning in the clear a diameter of 142 feet, 
shows not a single crack to-day. 

“The many years of its successful use has 
demonstrated that cement concrete is no longer 
an experiment. Its superiority over all other ma- 
terial has been demonstrated. If the materials 
are properly used, and our instructions followed, 
cement concrete has no peer for strength and 
durability. 

“The concrete industry has not been dead, but 
dormant. The discovery of new lands and virgin 
forests had placed the people where it was an easy 
matter to chop down the trees and saw up the 
logs. But now the timber is gone and the con- 
crete industry is being revived and improved. 
Necessity has caused us to draw upon another 
natural resource far more extensive than the forest 
and far more substantial.” 

“Interesting, very interesting,” said the priest, 
returning to the chair near the visitor. “There are 
some things in that announcement that my an- 
cient history failed to record. But I object to one 
statement in the last paragraph. The forests and 
timber are not all gone, at least in Kentucky. We 


62 Father Dufrere’s Visitor 

have here the very finest cedar and locust posts, 
and are shipping them by car-loads to other sec- 
tions of the country.” 

“This is certainly an objection that I did not 
expect to hear,” replied the inventor. “But sup- 
pose that I can make the posts cheaper than they 
can cut the cedar or the locust,” he resumed. 

“Impossible,” answered the pastor. “The posts 
cost nothing ; they are cut and seasoned during the 
winter months when the farmer has nothing else 
to do.” 

“How much do these posts bring?” 

“Between twenty and thirty cents.” 

“But I can make my post for fifteen cents,” 
argued the inventor. “They will outlast three 
wooden posts. Would it not pay the farmer to 
sell his post, double his money, and have other 
posts far more durable?” Father Dufrere did not 
answer, so Kevin Bolt talked on. “With my 
printed instructions any laborer can make the 
posts. The principal cost is the iron rods for re- 
inforcement — about six cents to each post. 
Cement costs four cents. We allow the other five 
cents for the labor and the sand or gravel. But 


Father Dufr eve’s Visitor 63 

gravel or sand or broken stone is cheap in this 
section of the State, so that leaving out labor it 
will cost but ten cents to make a concrete post. 
One man can make seventy in a single day.” 

“You know your story well,” put in the priest. 

“Yes, your Reverence, I have thought over it, 
and gone over it for many days. A patent lawyer 
assisted me with this folder setting forth the ad- 
vantages of the post.” 

The afternoon passed by as the two talked over 
the new invention, and Kevin Bolt unfolded his 
plans for the future. “My wife was raised on a 
farm in Illinois,” said he, “and it has always been 
her desire to take the children back to the country. 
If I could only get a house at a reasonable rate I 
would settle down and give Kentucky a trial with 
my invention.” 

“There will be no difficulty in getting a vacant 
house,” said the priest. “But I still have my 
doubts about the success of the scheme. Kentucky 
people are slow to take up new ideas. I have a 
parishoner named Bell, who has been ridiculed by 
the whole community for making improvements 
in methods of farming.” 


64 Father Dufrere’s Visitor 

“I have read much about the awakening of the 
South/’ argued the visitor, “the great iron indus- 
tries of Alabama, and the reclaiming of vast tracts 
of land in Mississippi.” 

“I have read such things, too, but the awaken- 
ing fever has not reached us in Kentucky. 
Still, if you can enjoy my table and a rather 
hard bed, I would like to have you remain 
as my guest for a few days and look the country 
over.” 

“It is kind of you,” replied Mr. Bolt, who had 
walked to the window ; “but I must say that it is 
a rather poor season for looking at the country; 
the snow seems to be half a foot deep.” 

“The deepest we have had this winter. When 
a thaw sets in, it will be glorious for the maple- 
sugar,” and the priest came to the window and 
pointed down a hill toward the river to a large 
wood of maple-trees. 

“Are not the hunters returning?” asked Mr. 
Bolt as he saw some objects moving among the 
brush far down the hill. 

“Yes, yes, there they are.” In a few minutes 
the boy was in his father’s arms. Only a short 


Father Dufrere’s Visitor 65 

explanation was necessary, as all present knew 
the particulars of Raymond’s adventure. 

That night a registered letter was sent to Chi- 
cago with the information that Raymond was 
well, and that he and his father would remain in 
Kentucky for a few days ; but it was arranged that 
the boy would stay at the home of the Bells, 
and with young Leo Bell, who had taken him 
hunting that day. 

On the following morning before starting out 
to look for a house the inventor offered to give 
the priest a practical proof of his scheme. He 
proposed to mold a hitching post near the front 
gate to be a monument, he said, of his and his 
wife’s gratitude. 

Kevin Bolt was no mean carpenter ; before half 
the morning had worn away he was busy with 
saw and hammer fashioning the molds for the 
large post. The work was done in the woodshed 
where maple-sugar was usually boiled. A fire was 
now kindled in the furnace so that the shed was 
warm and comfortable. 

“You must have been making preparation for 
me, your Reverence,” remarked the visitor, as he 


66 Father Dufrere’s Visitor 

examined a few sacks of cement which had been 
left over by plasterers some weeks previously. 
“Here are sand and gravel,” he continued. “If 
I had sent an order to have the material in readi- 
ness, and had given the exact proportions I do not 
think you could have done better.” 

“And is nothing else required to make your 
concrete post?” asked the old pastor. 

“Absolutely nothing for one of this size; and 
this is the reason that the fence-post will be wel- 
comed by every farmer. He is his own manu- 
facturer ; he gets his material from his own farm, 
with exception of the cement and reinforcement, 
which will cost but little.” 

As Mr. Bolt sawed, and cut, and hammered he 
chatted incessantly about the good points of his 
invention, occasionally referring to one of the an- 
nouncements which he carried in his pocket. The 
priest was convinced and predicted success. Be- 
fore noon the pattern for the hitching post was 
ready, and it was agreed to prepare the mixture 
for the mold after dinner. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE SUGAR-CAMP 

r"\ URING the last days of February or the 
early days of March, when winter and 
spring battle for the right of reign, when other 
trees show no signs of awakening from their long 
sleep the maple-trees gush forth to welcome the 
first warm sunshine. Stirred and invigorated by 
the life sap, the delicate extremities of the 
branches swell and redden. Small, brilliant flow- 
ers, rich in nectar and harvested by bees, are born 
before the leaves appear. As the foliage thickens 
the long-winged seeds ripen, and at the first spring 
gust the red fruit goes twirling to the ground like 
swarms of dragon-flies. The regular, palmate 
leaves have reached maturity before the oblong 
bulbs of the hickory burst and when the honey 
locusts still stand with barren boughs. 

Frequently rising to a height of one hundred 
and twenty feet, with its deep foliage and 
perfect symmetry, the maple is at once the 
67 


68 The Sugar-Camp 

glory of the woods and the favorite of the park 
and street. 

But it is during the early days of fall that it 
stands in all its unrivaled beauty. At times its 
leaves have the pure saffron of the ash tree and 
again the russet of the hickory or the black oak. 
When the frost catches the leaves before they are 
mature they turn to a pale straw color. If the 
season is advanced the trees are robed in brightest 
of yellow or orange; but if the cold nights ap- 
proach gradually and there is sufficient dampness 
for the gradual maturing of the foliage the maples 
wear the most delicate hues of rose-pink and 
poppy-red ; then they flame with cherry, and crim- 
son, and scarlet, and cardinal, and claret, and 
maroon. 

When Raymond Bolt took his first walk 
through the maple-grove belonging to Father 
Dufrere all beauty had fled, and the silence of 
death was over the landscape. But the Chicago 
lad was not worrying about the departed beauties 
of the woods. He was to help in the maple- 
grove and in the manufacture of maple-sugar 
and maple-syrup. Nor was he to work alone, but 


The Sugar-Camp 69 

was to be the companion of his new friend, 
Leo Bell. 

When Leo had walked into the pastor’s resi- 
dence on a previous morning the priest attempted 
to introduce the two young strangers. But boys 
are embarrassed by formal introductions. Leo’s 
hands refused to leave his pockets and Ray stood 
digging the toe of his right foot into a crevice of 
the carpetless floor. It was only when the priest 
had left them alone that they began to exchange a 
few informal words; then all unconsciously they 
gradually began to talk ; and before long chatted 
away like chums of long standing. 

“You carry this bundle of spiles,” said Leo to 
his city friend as the two prepared to start one 
morning for the maple-grove. At the same time 
he placed an auger and hammer on a wheelbar- 
row, already loaded with fifty or more tin buckets. 

“What did you call them ?” asked the boy from 
Chicago. 

“Spiles; don’t you know what a spile is?” 

“Yes; I know what a spiled child is; that is 
what I was often called, but I didn’t look like any 
of these things,” and Ray examined with evident 


7 o 


The Sugar-Camp 


curiosity one of the little pipes or tubes. It was 
about a foot in length and was made of some 
porous growth from which the pith had been re- 
moved. 

Leo was as slow to understand the pun or play 
on the word as the city lad was to comprehend the 
nature of the object which he carried. “Don’t you 
know what kind of wood it is made of?” queried 
the former. 

“Course not,” was the quick reply. As a matter 
of fact young Bolt had seen many a sumac bush 
in the city parks, but like other thoughtless boys 
had never stopped to examine it or ask its name. 

“I reckon you can’t walk here without seeing 
bunches of them,” and Leo pointed out a cluster of 
shrubbery near by. “Wait,” he whispered, “there 
is a rabbit asleep in the bushes, “see if I can hit 
it with a rock.” 

“That ain’t a rock,” spoke out Ray so loud that 
the rabbit awoke and escaped. 

“There, you have scared it,” protested Leo. 

“Well, you said you’d throw a rock; are you a 
giant?” 

Leo didn’t understand the force of the remark. 


The Sugar-Camp 71 

“What did you scare the rabbit for ?” he 
asked. 

“I didn’t mean to ; but it seemed so funny for a 
kid your size to throw rocks.” 

“Well, I didn’t have a gun,” pleaded the boy. 

“But that ain’t no rock in your hand; it’s a 
stone,” explained the boy from the north. 

“No, it’s a rock; we call ’em rocks, and they 
are rocks,” argued Leo warmly. “I reckon I know 
what things are down in Kentucky. They are 
rocks.” 

“There is a rock,” and Bolt pointed toward a 
large gray mass which twenty men could not 
have stirred. “But look here, pard,” as some of his 
lingo came back to him, “I’ve had one fight about 
a name and a word, and I don’t want another. 
Let us shake hands and be the best of friends.” 

“Of course we will,” were the assuring words 
of Leo. “I didn’t want to fight. Father Dufrere 
said that we must be the best of friends.” 

“Then let us shake hands.” Leo hurled the 
stone into the bush while Raymond dropped his 
load of spiles, the two grasped hands, and vowed 
eternal friendship. 


72 


The Sugar-Camp 


Let us take a glance at the two lads as they 
stand with clasped hands. There was an innocent 
look in the countenance of each. The country lad 
had not known temptation; the city chap had 
known it but had passed it by unscathed. Both 
were quick of temper, the one inheriting it from 
his southern ancestry; the other, though of a 
northern climate, having in his veins the blood of 
the Gael. Outdoor work and exercise had given 
the country boy a hardier frame ; but the trained 
sinews of the playground and gymnasium had 
made the visitor more capable of enduring. They 
were of the same height, with nothing remark- 
able in their countenances — just typical American 
boys whom we meet in the cities or along the coun- 
try roads every day. Their hair was of the same 
grayish brown. Each wore a cap, Raymond’s 
being smaller with more of a suggestion of style 
than utility. Leo’s pants were long, faded, and 
baggy; Raymond’s knickerbockers showed evi- 
dent signs of use, but the perfect fit made untidi- 
ness impossible. Had the Chicago lad donned 
the cap and pants of the Kentuckian, he would 
have been transformed at once into a country boy. 



Just watch the juice fly!” 



ry 6) 
/ O 


mmmm ; 












The Sugar-Camp 73 

The boys proceeded down a hill toward the 
maple-grove. For three days it had been cold, but 
now a thaw had set in and Leo explained that 
their work should be rushed. Raymond knew only 
in general that they were to make maple-sugar and 
maple-syrup, and that the maple-tree figured in 
the process; but by what mysterious way he did 
not understand. 

“Here is the first,” began Leo, who was work- 
ing under the directions of Father Dufrere; and 
with these words he dropped the wheelbarrow and 
took up the auger. “Just watch the juice fly!” 
He bored a hole about two inches deep into the 
tree, and on drawing out the bit drove in one 
of the spiles or spouts. The two stood watch- 
ing the spout for some minutes, but not a drop 
of juice flowed. Had it not been for the truce 
so lately formed Raymond might have laughed; 
but under the circumstances he stood gravely 
silent. 

“It is too early in the morning for the sap to 
run ; so much the better. We can get half the trees 
ready before the sap starts. We’ll bore two holes 
into each tree. Now you try to tap one.” Tapping 


74 The Sugar-Camp 

was the word used for boring into maples for the 
sap. 

“It isn’t hard work,” put in Raymond as the 
sharp auger cut into the tender bark. 

“It’s harder now, isn’t it?” asked Leo, who 
could see from the color of the shavings when the 
auger had passed through the bark into the wood. 

“You bet; what is the matter with it?” 

“Oh, nothing ! Only you have struck the wood, 
and maple isn’t soft wood, you know.” Raymond 
didn’t know until then. But under the encourage- 
ment and direction of Leo, who showed him the 
proper inclination to give the hole so as to let the 
sap flow, he soon finished his part of the assigned 
labor. Driving in a second spout the boys passed 
on to the second tree. Before an hour had passed 
more than fifteen trees were ready with spouts and 
buckets. 

“Watch this tree run immediately,” predicted 
Leo crossing over a gully and stopping on a hill- 
side where the warm sun had been shining for 
an hour. His instinct was true. Even before the 
hole was bored to the required depth the sap had 
flowed down to the roots; and the spout had 


75 


The Sugar-Camp 

scarcely been inserted when the first dip, dip, 
dip of the season was heard as the creamy 
drops flowed from the end of the spile into 
the bucket. “Hurrah, hurrah !” cried Leo, “there 
it is.” 

“Where is the sugar?” asked Raymond, who 
could see nothing remarkable in this pat-pat of 
water from a spout into a tin bucket. 

“Just taste this,” cried Leo holding the bucket 
with the few drops which had collected in this 
short time. 

“Why, it’s sweetened water !” and the city boy 
smacked his lips with evident satisfaction. 

“And don’t you taste the maple ?” 

“It is sweet and good.” 

“Wait until it begins to boil, and it will smell 
fine and taste fine,” asserted Leo, as he went on 
with the work. Then he explained the process of 
making sugar and syrup. They would collect the 
sap and haul it in a barrel to the woodshed back 
of the kitchen, where Aunt Emily would have two 
big kettles that held at least sixty gallons each. A 
roaring fire would reduce the sixty gallons to less 
than a gallon. It would then be transferred to a 


The Sugar-Camp 


76 

small kettle and boiled until ready to be poured out 
into molds, where it hardened into maple-sugar ; 
or it could be cooled when it was thick and was 
then called maple-syrup. 

“Hello, there!” and Mr. Cicil, who had 
promised Father Dufrere to assist for a few days 
in the sugar-grove, appeared in his big wagon on 
the brow of the hill. A sled was tossed from the 
wagon to the ground; then followed several bar- 
rels which the driver sent rolling far down into 
the valley. “How are the trees running, young- 
sters?” he cried. 

“Just starting,” replied Leo with a ring in his 
voice, which showed that he was enjoying the 
work. 

“I’ll give you a hand at the tapping,” he said, 
walking up to the boys. “It ’ll be an hour before 
it’s warm enough for the sap to flow.” He shook 
hands with Raymond, remarking that his coat and 
cap were too thin for such weather ; but the boy 
protested that he was in no way suffering from 
the cold. “What are you doing?” he demanded 
with a laugh, stooping over Leo, who was hard at 
work with his auger. 


The Sugar-Camp 77 

“You know what I am doing?” was the un- 
suspecting reply. 

“I don’t know, and you don’t know,” protested 
the man. “If this city chap tapped a red oak tree 
instead of a maple I could understand; but ” 

“I reckon you are right;” and Leo blushed as 
he drew the auger out of the tree. “An old red 
oak!” he acknowledged. 

“We’ll call you ‘little red oak’ after this,” 
affirmed Mr. Cicil, and he was true to his threat. 

With two augers and three workmen the tap- 
ping progressed rapidly. But before noon all 
hands were kept busy gathering the sap. The bar- 
rels were distributed throughout the woods and 
to them the sap was carried in buckets from the 
nearest trees. Each barrel when filled was hauled 
to the top of the hill on the sled and rolled into the 
wagon. Early in the afternoon both kettles were 
boiling and seething; and old Aunt Emily sang 
with a lusty voice as she stirred the fire in the 
great furnace. 

After supper the two boys relieved the cook, and 
for two hours kept the fire burning beneath the 
kettles. How pleasant it was in the shed after the 


78 


The Sugar-Camp 


day's work and tramp in the cold woods ! How 
the fire glowed and danced and hissed ! How the 
great kettles steamed and filled the shed with 
sweetest aroma ! 

Now for the first time the boys became intimate. 
As they sat in the glow of the fire, Raymond gave 
a vivid but incoherent account of his native city, 
of its long streets, its high buildings, its river 
laden with monster boats, its net of railroads, and 
all the other sights so new and novel to a country 
lad. Leo told of the joys of fishing, ot camping 
at night on the banks of the Beech-fork, of coon 
hunts with a negro workman named Bob Lindon, 
of trapping rabbits, and shooting squirrels, of 
gathering walnuts and hickory nuts, of sequestered 
woods where grape-vines were laden with tempt- 
ing fruit. 

As the boys talked the fire grew low and the 
kettles ceased to hiss; when Father Dufrere en- 
tered the shed he found the boys asleep with their 
heads resting upon the fire-wood, and their hands 
grasped in friendly embrace. 


CHAPTER VIII 

TROUBLE IN THE SUGAR-CAMP 

J^ARLY on the following morning Aunt Emily 
was out in the shed starting a fire in the 
furnace. The sap which had originally filled the 
huge kettles was now reduced to less than a 
bucketful. The old negress stirred vigorously as 
the sap became black and slightly viscous ; and be- 
fore any one arrived she had transferred the con- 
tents to a smaller copper kettle, and had again 
filled the larger ones. 

“Dat am so sweet,” she avowed, sipping the 
precious liquid, “de angels in hebbin surely am 
libbin’ on maple-sugar. Why, chillun, you most 
scar’d dis old nigger ter death,” she expostulated 
as Raymond Bolt and Leo Bell came rushing into 
the shed. 

“Is the maple-sugar ready ?” asked the former, 
all out of breath. 

“Now, don’t be axin’ no foolish question like 
dat; wese gwine foh ter bile all de sap, an’ den 
make de sugar.” 


79 


80 Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 

This was certainly a disappointment, for young 
Bolt had run out to the shed to get his first taste 
of genuine maple-sugar; and now came the in- 
formation that he would have to wait for some 
days. 

“But, chile, youse don’t hab foh ter wait foh 
sugar, jes’ taste dis ’lasses; maple-’lasses am jes’ 
as good as maple-sugar; I’se jes’ sayin’ ter myself 
dat de angels must lib on maple-’lasses ; foh it am 
so sweet and good.” 

“That is good!” and the boy smacked his lips 
with evident satisfaction. 

Soon a few of the neighboring farmers came 
to assist at the work ; for it was well known that 
Father Dufrere used the profits of the sale of 
maple-sugar and syrup for the poor of the parish. 
As more than three hundred trees were tapped and 
the season was a promising one, it was calculated 
that the output would be over a thousand pounds 
of sugar, and two hundred gallons of syrup. 

On the second day there was a deep snow fol- 
lowed by a thaw, so that the sap flowed abun- 
dantly, and the huge kettles were boiling day and 
night. 


8i 


Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 

Aunt Emily claimed the privilege of deciding 
when the sap was sufficiently thick to crystallize in 
the molds. Long experience had made her an ex- 
pert judge; and she seldom failed in her calcula- 
tions. If the contents remained in the copper 
kettles too long, the sugar hardened before 
it could be removed; if it was poured into the 
molds too soon it would not harden after being 
cooled. 

With an iron spoon the old colored cook col- 
lected the crusted sugar along the side of the 
kettle ; the rapidity with which this crust gathered 
was the sure indication that the sugar was form- 
ing. Aunt Emily tasted the sugar and rolled her 
eyes upwards as if consulting unseen spirits; 
next with solemn words she would order the con- 
tents of the kettle poured out into the molds ; then 
she laughed with boisterous satisfaction as the 
sugar crystallized into inviting cakes. 

It was in the evening especially that the old 
shed assumed a festive appearance, and the sugar 
season was at its highest. Every neighbor felt 
free to call and partake of the delicious maple- 
sugar. The good priest sat in the midst of his 


82 Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 

people and frequently entertained them with 
stories as the evening wore on. 

Old people could recall the years which fol- 
lowed the Civil War, when the manufacture of 
maple-sugar was a business. But gradually the 
industry had declined, until but few of the Ken- 
tucky farmers considered the work lucrative. The 
trees, too, disappeared except along the hillsides 
where the ground could not be cultivated. The 
huge kettles were utilized for boiling lye in the 
manufacture of soap. Although the industry be- 
came a lost art, this did not prevent many of the 
farmers from bringing barrels of sap to be 
boiled down by the colored cook. It was their 
contribution to the poor of the parish, since the 
proceeds from the sale of the sugar was used in 
this way by the pastor. 

“This is the richest output we have had for 
ten years,” were the words of the priest to Ray- 
mond as the two stood one evening in the shed 
before a pyramid made of cakes of maple sugar. 

“How many pounds will we have, Father?” 
asked the lad unconsciously in the first person, 
thereby constituting himself a partner in the busi- 


Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 83 

ness. In fact Raymond Bolt had taken such an 
interest in the work, and had labored so faithfully, 
that he felt he was a member of the maple-sugar 
firm. 

“There will probably be a thousand pounds/’ 
was the reply of Father Dufrere, “and every ounce 
of it is made of pure maple-syrup. I under- 
stand that a Government inspector will call in a 
few days to enforce the Pure Food Law, as a num- 
ber of the farmers have been reported for adul- 
terating the output by using a large proportion of 
brown sugar. If any one is caught he must pay 
a high fine — something like fifty dollars, I believe, 
and spend three months in jail.” 

“I am glad ours is pure,” put in Raymond, “for 
it would be pretty hard to stay in jail and not get 
home for three months.” 

“We always get the very best price for our 
sugar,” explained the priest, “and we find a ready 
market for it, because the dealers know that the 
product is genuine.” 

When Father Dufrere and Raymond had gone 
into the house Aunt Emily slipped out into the 
shed carrying a basket full of hickory bark. As a 


84 Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 

thaw had set in, the sap did not flow and the in- 
dustry was interrupted for a few days. Yet the 
old negress seemed intent on making a special 
brand of maple-sugar by a process known to few. 
When the water was boiling in one of the kettles 
thirty pounds of brown sugar were emptied into 
the caldron together with a basket of hickory bark. 
This latter was intended to give a pungent taste 
and brown color to the product. A gallon of 
maple-syrup was added to the mixture which was 
boiled for an hour. Then the bark was removed 
and soon the contents began to harden. It was 
poured into the molds, and in an hour the old 
negress had forty pounds of maple-sugar. No 
one but an expert could detect the imitation. 

On the following morning Mr. Gubbins, the 
Government official, arrived, chatted with the 
priest and Kevin Bolt on the porch and smoked 
some home-made twist. 

Aunt Emily was not disturbed by the inspec- 
tor's presence in the shed where the sugar was 
stored. It is true that she heard the visitor spoken 
of as representing the Government in the interests 
of the Pure Food Law; but all this was unin- 


85 


Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 

telligible to the old negress, who gloried in her 
powers of deception, and purposely handed Mr. 
Gubbins a few cakes made of brown sugar, and 
tempered with hickory bark and maple-syrup. Her 
violation of the Pure Food Law was an offense 
of long standing. In fact before such a law had 
been made and before the manufacturers of 
maple-sugar had sought to protect the product by 
stringent regulation, Aunt Emily had concocted 
maple-sugar out of brown glucose, red corn-cobs, 
and hickory bark and had received many con- 
gratulations for excelling in the industry. 

“Most delicious !” exclaimed the inspector, 
taking a large bite from a cake of Aunt Emily’s 
special brand. “Most delicious! the genuine ar- 
ticle; only the pure maple sap gives the brittle 
fiber. I have always held that no adulteration 
could imitate the pure product. I do not even 
have to test the sugar by any analysis,” continued 
the inspector as he munched the savory morsel. 
“Most delicious! Most delicious!” 

Mr. Gubbins was invited to dinner, together 
with Kevin Bolt and Hamilton Bell, one of the 
leading members of the parish. 


86 Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 

During the meal Aunt Emily, who was both 
cook and waitress, overheard a conversation which 
convinced her that she would be taken to jail and 
forced to pay a fine far beyond her means. 

“I dislike very much to make any arrest,” 
affirmed Mr. Gubbins, “but this adulteration of 
maple-sugar must stop.” 

“I have warned my people,” said the priest, 
“that it is now against the law to use any adultera- 
tion.” 

“By what process do they succeed in imitating 
the genuine article,” asked Kevin Bolt. 

“I am told that brown sugar and hickory bark 
are used,” explained Father Dufrere. “I do not 
understand the process, as we make nothing but 
pure maple-sugar; especially,” he laughed, turn- 
ing to Mr. Gubbins, “since Government inspec- 
tors come to examine the output.” 

“And red corn-cobs help to give the proper 
color and flavor,” put in Hamilton Bell. 

Aunt Emily's hand began to shake as she 
offered some hot waffles to the men at supper. 

“I think I have a clear proof against one party,” 
replied the officer. “In fact I could find but one 


Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 87 

maple-tree on the farm and still the family has 
some hundreds of pounds for sale.” 

“I have spoken to a member of my parish,” 
were the pastor’s assuring words. 

“Let us trust the guilty parties are not church 
members,” replied the inspector. 

“I am sure your Reverence would plead for 
them if arrested,” said Mr. Bolt. 

“Perhaps, perhaps,” assented the priest ; “but if 
such an abuse has crept in among our people, it 
is time to root it out; the Government has my 
sympathy and co-operation.” 

Aunt Emily was getting more nervous, al- 
though she understood but a part of the conversa- 
tion. 

“Our duties are at times very disagreeable,” re- 
plied the official, “but still we are sent to enforce 
the law and should not let sentiment interfere with 
duty.” 

“Right,” said the priest, “we all have duties at 
times that are hard and disagreeable, most dis- 
agreeable ; but we must do them, we must do our 
duty.” 

“That is just what I intend to do !” and the in- 


88 


Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 


spector struck the table to add emphasis to his 
words, “that is what I intend to do; and,” he said 
slowly and solemnly, “if — any — one — in — this — 
part — of the country — has — made — maple-sugar 
of brown sugar — hickory bark — corn-cobs ” 

Here Aunt Emily let fall a plate of waffles. 

“If — anybody — has made — maple-sugar — of 
brown sugar — and hickory bark — and corn-cobs 
— he — will — be sent — to jail” — the speaker 
turned, for the cook had fallen upon her 
knees. 

“Good Lawd, hab mercy on dis ole nigger!” 

“What’s the matter, Aunt Emily?” asked the 
priest. 

“De Lawd hab mercy on dis ole nigger !” 

“Come, come,” pleaded the good priest, for 
neither he nor the guests knew the cause of the 
old cook’s pleadings. 

“Don’t worry about breaking a dish; I’ll send 
you three just that size for the fine supper which 
you have given,” was the generous offer of Mr. 
Gubbins. 

“De Lawd hab mercy on dis ole nigger!” 

“And I’ll add three more dishes,” said Mr. Bolt. 


Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 89 

“Good Lawd ub hebben, hab mercy on dis heah 
nigger !” she cried the louder. 

“How much does the dish cost?” asked the in- 
spector; “after such a fine supper of waffles and 
the purest maple-syrup I ever ate, I’m willing to 
buy a whole set of dishes.” 

The old colored cook refused to rise from 
her suppliant position, but continued to cry 
out : “Good Lawd, hab mercy on dis heah 
nigger !” 

The parish priest was puzzled at this unusual 
behavior of Aunt Emily. Never was she happier 
than when guests were feasting upon hot waffles 
and enjoying her adulterated maple-syrup. The 
pastor was, therefore, at a loss to understand the 
reasons for her sudden discomfiture, her moans 
and supplications. Like the others, he at first at- 
tributed her ejaculations to the accident of the 
dish ; but he now saw that there were other causes 
for her strange actions. 

The old negress put an end to all doubt by 
making a bold confession. 

“I ’clar foh goodness dat I’se didn’t know 
nuffin’ ’bout de law when I’se made de sugar.” 


90 Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 

“Your sugar was the best I ever tasted/' put in 
the inspector. 

“Cose it wuz, mistah, cose it was, foh I’se been 
makin’ maple-sugar an’ usin' brown sugar an' 
hick’ry bark and co’n-cobs, foh long on twenty 
years. But de Lawd knows I'se didn't want to 
break no law an' go to jail, and pay fibe hun’erd 
dollars." 

There was a silence for some seconds. The in- 
spector moved restlessly in his chair. 

“Why didn’t you tell me how you were making 
the sugar ?" asked the priest. 

“Stand up, good woman, the man won’t send 
you to jail," were the assuring words of Hamilton 
Bell. 

“He's got foh ter say so 'fore I’se gits 
on my feet. Good Lawd ub hebben, hab mercy 
on dis nigger!" And Aunt Emily refused to 
rise. 

The inspector resolved to free himself from his 
embarrassing position by one bold act of pardon. 
“Come, my good woman, I promise you not to 
enforce the law. I can do this as I have no proof 
against you. All that you will have to do is 


Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 91 

to swear that you will never in future make 
maple-sugar or maple-syrup of anything except 
pure maple sap.” 

“The Catechism says you musn’t swar’ ; I 
can't do dat, boss,” and Aunt Emily refused to 
rise under such conditions. 

“You can swear not to break the law,” ex- 
plained the pastor. 

“Den I’se swar’ foh goodness to de good Lawd 
dat I'se won't make no moah maple-sugar ub 
brown sugar an' won't put in no moah hick'ry 
bark,” and the old negress rose with a smile re- 
turning to her face. 

“But you must swear upon a Bible,” claimed 
the inspector, who wished to impress the culprit 
with the seriousness of the oSfense. “Where is 
your Bible, your Reverence?” 

The sacred volume was brought forth, and the 
culprit was ordered to approach and lay her right 
hand upon the book. 

“What is your name?” asked the inspector. 

“Aunt Emily,” came the response. 

“Your family name?” 

“Aunt Emily, I tole you.” 


92 Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 

“Yes, but is your name Thompson or Simp- 
son ?” 

“No Thompson or Simpson ’bout it — ’jes Aunt 
Emily.” 

“Very well. Now, Aunt Emily, you repeat 
these words after me: T, Aunt Emily, with my 
right hand upon the Bible, do most solemnly 
swear that I won’t use any brown sugar or hick- 
ory bark or any other ingredient ” 

“I didn’t use none of dat last stuff,” protested 
the cook. 

The inspector saw at once that explanations 
would be useless, so he was content to exclude 
the brown sugar and hickory bark; and when 
the solemn words of the oath were concluded the 
cook broke forth in a loud guffaw. “Say, boss,” 
she asked, “am dar any ’jections to using de 
bark ub de pig-nut, case its jes’ as good as de 
hick’ry ?” 

At this the visitor from Chicago and the priest 
enjoyed a hearty laugh. Aunt Emily, thinking 
that all troubles had ended, regained her usual 
smile, and hobbled away to the kitchen to get a 
fresh supply of waffles. 


Trouble in the Sugar-Camp 93 

The Government official promised to send in 
his report in a few days. In fact the priest asked 
for the results of the analysis, intending to insert 
a printed copy of it in every shipment of his 
sugar. But before the report came there was 
grief and consternation in the parish of Father 
Dufrere. No great calamity, it is true, had be- 
fallen any member of the parish; yet people 
talked, and gossiped, and wondered who could 
have turned thieves and robbers in the com- 
munity. 

Whatever might have been the faults of the 
St. Thomas’ parish, stealing was not one of them. 
Houses, corn-pens, chicken-coops — all were left 
unlocked night and day, and no one ever com- 
plained of being robbed. But now some one had 
turned thief. It was not so much the value of the 
product as the fact that it was regarded as be- 
longing to the poor and in a sense to the church. 
Then the boldness of the deed ! In fine, some one 
had driven a wagon past the church, past the 
priest’s residence, up to the shed, and had quietly 
carried off every pound of the year’s output of 
maple-sugar ! 


CHAPTER IX 


THE LITTLE DETECTIVE 

'J'WO days after the maple-sugar had been 
stolen a cold wave set in followed by snow. 
Leo and Raymond seized the opportunity for a 
long-promised rabbit hunt. It would be impos- 
sible to do any more work in the sugar-camp until 
a thaw set in, when all the borings in the trees 
would have to be renewed. 

Raymond proved quite a ready scholar at his 
first lessons with a sporting gun. His target was 
a tin can placed on the top of a rail fence. Leo 
gave some directions for aiming, then clapped his 
hands with joy when at the first attempt the can 
went whirling to the ground. 

“Now,” said the young teacher, “try a shot or 
two at a running mark. I’ll throw another can 
along the top of the snow.” 

Bang ! “Did I hit it ?” asked the anxious pupil. 

“No, you must have shot behind it,” answered 
Leo, picking up the can. 

“Let me try again.” 


94 


The Little Detective 95 

"I reckon you’d better aim a little ahead of it,” 
put in Leo. 

“Here it goes,” said Ray bringing the gun to 
his shoulders. 

“Missed again! No; three holes in it,” and Leo 
showed his companion the perforated target. 

The can was then thrown in the midst of dry 
weeds and brush. Although it required a quick 
aim Raymond succeeded in each shot. With the 
rabbit dog, Flap, the two young huntsmen started 
toward the cedar thicket where game was usually 
plentiful. 

They had scarcely climbed the rail fence when 
the deep call of Flap told them that he had scented 
his first rabbit. With the eye of a master Leo 
scanned the thicket, then turning to Raymond 
said : “Stand right here and keep your eye on that 
opening between those two cedars, for Flap will 
bring the rabbit back in this direction and it will 
come right through that opening.” 

“How do you know ?” asked the inexperienced 
huntsman. 

“I am only guessing; but experienced hunters 
can generally make a good guess about the direc- 


9 6 


The Little Detective 


tion of a rabbit.” The boy spoke with such au- 
thority that his companion trusted his judgment 
and took his position as ordered, while Leo went 
further into the thicket to take a position that was 
not so promising. 

As Flap's deep bark rang out clearly from the 
thicket it was easy to judge how far it was away; 
but it was not possible to tell just how far the rab- 
bit was in the lead. Nor did Flap make an effort 
to catch the rabbit or even get close to the game. 
It was the dog’s part of the sport simply to follow 
the rabbit until the latter doubled upon its tracks 
and came back to the place from which it started, 
and where the hunters were waiting in readiness. 
In fact the best dogs are those which follow the 
game slowly, for if hotly pursued the rabbit will 
often dash off to some other thicket or hole miles 
away; while if pursued slowly it will invariably 
be less alarmed, and will in time turn back to its 
starting point. 

The inexperienced huntsman from the city cen- 
tered his whole attention upon the barking of the 
dog, not once turning to look toward the opening 
which Leo had pointed out, and thinking that it 


The Little Detective 


97 


would be time to get ready for the game when 
the baying of Flap announced that the rabbit was 
drawing near. But the little cotton-tail, which 
was far ahead of the dog, came through the very 
opening which Leo had pointed out, and up quite 
close to the boy, who was just then looking over 
the tops of the cedar-trees, and dashed off without 
being seen by the awaiting huntsman. Soon Ray- 
mond could hear Flap coming up through the 
bushes until he finally appeared at the very open- 
ing through which the rabbit had passed but a 
few seconds before. 

In fact the dog dashed into the opening so sud- 
denly that the boy in his excitement and expecta- 
tion was on the point of sending a load of shot 
after him. Flap came to a halt right in front of 
the lad; there he sat looking up into the young 
huntsman’s face. 

“Where is the rabbit?” asked the lad. 

Flap made no answer. 

“Where is the rabbit, I say?” 

“That is just what Flap wants to know,” said 
Leo coming up. 

“Well, I didn’t see any rabbit,” interposed Ray. 


9 8 


The Little Detective 


“Of course you didn’t; and that just makes Flap 
angry ; you can see he is awfully put out about the 
matter. I tell you he won’t hunt if we don’t do 
our part,” protested Leo. 

“No rabbit around here,” asserted Raymond. 

“But there was one around here,” laughed Leo, 
“and you let it get away. Didn’t he, Flap ?” The 
boy stroked the long ears of the dog. “You see, 
Flap, this is his first time, and we’ll have to par- 
don him.” 

“I don’t believe any rabbit came this way,” ar- 
gued Ray, “for just as soon as the dog came close 
I looked right at the opening.” 

“Then it’s my fault,” acknowledged Leo. “You 
see the rabbit was far in the lead of the dog ; rab- 
bits often keep a big distance in the lead.” 

Both boys were now convinced of the cause of 
the mistake. 

“Start him again, Flap ! here we go, right after 
him again!” with these exclamations Leo dashed 
through an opening where he thought the rabbit 
probably disappeared, and soon the dog, following 
the boy and encouraged by the cries, was on the 
trail for a second time. 


The Little Detective 


99 


“The rabbit has taken a different direction this 
time,” said the young country lad after listening 
for a few seconds. He told Ray to follow him 
while he carefully surveyed the thicket. 

“Fll pick this place,” affirmed the boy, gravely 
taking his position on the top of a slight elevation 
with a clearing at gun shot below. “Stand here 
and if you don’t get a shot at that rabbit my name 
isn’t Leo Bell.” 

“Well, if it comes, I’ll see it,” replied Ray- 
mond. 

“I hope so; for if you don’t, Flap won’t hunt 
any more to-day. He’s a good dog; but he’s stub- 
born, and if you can not see rabbits he’ll stop 
hunting.” 

As so much of the day’s sport depended on this 
one chance the boys finally decided that it would 
be better for both to await in the same place so 
that each could have a chance at the rabbit. 

“He’s going further this time,” whispered Leo, 
who judged from the faint barking that the rab- 
bit was making a longer detour. “They generally 
go away farther,” he went on to explain, “after 
they have once returned to the starting place.” 


IOO 


The Little Detective 


After twenty minutes of anxious waiting it was 
evident that the dog was approaching and in the 
very direction in which he was expected. Then 
he could be heard within gunshot, and concealed 
only by a few young cedar trees ; then from a sud- 
den yell it was evident that the rabbit was quite 
close. After outdistancing the dog during most 
of the pursuit, the rabbit, on approaching its start- 
ing point a second time, scented danger. As with 
one bound both rabbit and dog appeared, Ray- 
mond’s gun rang out. 

“You have killed Flap !” cried Leo, for just as 
he fired the dog fell on his side with a pitiful yelp. 

Strange to say the rabbit also leaped into the 
air and dropped dead. 

“You have killed both !” exclaimed Leo ; but the 
words were scarcely from his lips when Flap 
sprang to his feet and in another instant seized 
the head of the rabbit. Leo walked up and took 
the rabbit by the hind legs, while the dog tugged 
away until the head was severed from the body. 

After a close examination it was found that a 
single shot had struck the dog in the fore leg. As 
Flap was fully twelve feet from the rabbit when 


The Little Detective 


loi 


Raymond fired Leo was at first puzzled to explain 
how he could hit both marks at the same time. 
Walking back to the place from which Raymond 
had aimed and scanning the direction, it was read- 
ily seen that a shot had glanced from a small sap- 
ling, and a further examination of the side of the 
tree proved the truth of the supposition. 

Now that Raymond had learned how to hunt 
with Flap, the sport went on with such success 
that both boys bagged several rabbits, and were 
only too glad to take refuge in a deserted cabin 
at noon for rest and lunch. 

There were footprints coming and going from 
the dilapidated hovel; evidently two persons had 
been to the place the previous night. 

“I know who stole the sugar,” suddenly ex- 
claimed Raymond, rising from the snow where 
he had been carefully examining the footprints. 

“Wh-o-o?” stammered Leo. 

“How far is it to Chicago?” asked the 
boy, unmindful of the question asked by his 
companion. 

“Long on five miles through the country, I 
reckon; but ten miles or more by the pike.” 


The Little Detective 


102 

“We’ve got to get there before night,” was the 
imperative command of Raymond. 

“But who stole the sugar and how do you 
know?” 

“The Applegates ! The Applegates !” asserted 
Raymond. “Look here! One footprint here is 
a man’s and the other a boy’s. Old Applegate is 
lame, and one of his feet sticks out straight — see 
here — and here — and here — how he limped 
along.” 

“But how do you know they stole the sugar?” 

“They are mean people and when I was fighting 
the boy I heard the man and his wife talking 
about stealing.” 

“I think I know. How far is the road away ?” 

“Over there at the rail fence.” 

“Then come over there at once, — and if my sus- 
picions are true we’ll find a wagon track there, — 
a wagon that has — turned around and gone back 
— just — where these footprints — hit the road,” 
the boy was gasping for breath. 

Leo was getting interested and excited ; but to 
Ray, who had heard Jerry Sullivan tell of detec- 
tive stories, the matter seemed quite simple. 


The Little Detective 103 

“What made the Applegates bring the sugar 
here last night?” asked Leo meekly, for he had 
suddenly turned from a teacher in the art of 
hunting to a pupil in the science of capturing 
thieves. 

“I am not sure of that, but I’ll make a guess. 
I believe that the man and boy had the stolen sugar 
in a wagon; the wagon broke down, so that the 
sugar was carried here and left until last night, 
when they came back with another wagon and 
carried the stolen goods away.” 

The boys’ steps quickened as they approached 
the fence. 

“Hurrah for me!” cried Raymond in undis- 
guised admiration for his own work. “There is 
the wagon track ; and see it’s turned around here ! 
You notice that the man and boy made several 
trips carrying the sugar back from the old house. 
And here is something else,” went on the young 
detective running across the road and lifting up 
a part of a broken wagon-wheel. “Don’t you see 
that they brought along another wheel, and took 
the other wagon back with them. Evidently they 
tied it on to the new wagon which they brought 


164 


The Little Detective 


last night. It’s the Applegates and we have got 
to go to Chicago and tell on ’em.” 

“When?” 

“To-day — before night!” 

“They might hurt us.” 

“No, we’ll tell one of the police,” and just for 
the moment Raymond pictured a dozen or more 
bluecoats parading up and down the streets of this 
Kentucky village, or standing at street corners 
to prevent the congestion of traffic. “We’ll tell 
the policeman, if they have got only one,” he 
added. 

“Who is he?” asked the country lad, for in 
small Kentucky towns the all important guardian 
of public peace is called a town marshal. After 
some explanations the boys understood each other 
and agreed that the official of Chicago should be 
informed. 

“Let us go home and get a horse, and ride 
over,” suggested Leo, now that they were con- 
vinced of the imperative duty of making the trip. 

“No !” objected Raymond. “They may not let 
us go; besides it’s two miles back to the priest’s 
house and three more to your house. That makes 


The Little Detective 


ios 

five miles in all, and you say that it is only five 
miles through the country to Chicago ?” 

Leo did not like to confess that he had made the 
vaguest guess about the distance, and that he was 
by no means sure of the direction. He tried to 
convince himself that the trip there and back 
could be made before night. 

To the cabin again the two boys went, hung 
the rabbits against the side of the wall, slung 
their guns over their shoulders and, followed by 
Flap, struck out across the field and over the snow 
in what was supposed to be the direction to Chi- 
cago. For fully two hours Leo insisted that he 
knew the way across the country to Chicago. 
Then he began to doubt, and finally acknowledged 
that he was lost. They had passed several farm- 
houses but had avoided them, keeping into the 
fields ; but now when they were anxious to reach 
a farmer’s home no one could be sighted. A blind- 
ing snow set in and a darkness followed before 
the boys were aware that night was approaching. 

“Let us go back,” pleaded Leo. 

“How will you find the way?” asked his com- 
panion. 


lo6 The Little Detective 

“How will we get back even if we find Chi- 
cago?” Leo wanted to know. 

“We can get a buggy or follow the road.” 

“Suppose we go home, and then start again in 
the morning, and drive over,” said Leo, not aware 
of the proposed objection about finding the way. 

“But we can’t,” insisted Raymond. “All that 
we can do is to walk rapidly until we come to 
some house. Perhaps the man will have a tele- 
phone and we can telephone to the head of police 
in Chicago.” 

“I don’t believe that the Applegates stole the 
sugar,” remarked Leo, who was not only tired 
and hungry, but was disgusted with an adven- 
ture which had led to such results. 

“We’ll prove that as soon as we reach the city 
— I mean the town.” 

“Yes! But — but when will we reach it?” and 
the big tears gathered in the boy’s eyes. 

“Don’t give up, Leo,” and with difficulty Ray- 
mond forced a lump from his own throat. 

The boys trudged on in silence. “I do believe,” 
affirmed Leo, “that the houses are running away 
from us.” 


The Little Detective 


toy 

“I wonder whether the farmers will give us any 
supper?” asked Raymond doubtfully. 

“Of course they will; but one farmer will do 
for the present.” 

“How many miles have we walked?” the city 
boy wanted to know. 

“More than five ; and I do believe that we have 
passed Chicago.” 

“If it wasn’t such a little place,” said Raymond, 
“we could not have missed it. I bet that 
you couldn’t miss the real Chicago; at least 
a fellow could see the electric lights or 
foundries.” 

Just then Flap gave a low bark. 

“He sees something,” remarked Leo. 

“I hope so,” replied Ray, “just anybody or 
any thing to tell us where we are.” 

“I do believe my hand is frozen; wait a mo- 
ment,” pleaded Leo. He had changed his gun 
from his left to his right hand on hearing Flap, 
and to his surprise discovered that there was no 
feeling in his right hand. “Sure enough this hand 
is frozen,” and Leo rubbed it vigorously with 


snow. 


The Little Detective 


108 

“It isn’t cold enough to freeze anything,” af- 
firmed Raymond, “for my face is burning.” 

“Perhaps it is frozen, too; of course it is,” and 
Leo felt the hard lump on the cheeks of his com- 
panion. 

It took but a few applications of snow and a 
little rubbing to start the circulation through the 
benumbed members. But before the boys could 
resume their walk Flap gave a loud cry of alarm 
and disappeared among the cedars behind the lads. 
Then out from the blinding snow came a vision 
of a monster, with gnashing teeth, with flowing 
mane, with a mighty spring into the air, with a 
growl that defied any resistance. It seemed as 
fierce, as large, as powerful as a monster lion 
from the jungles of Africa. The contrast of the 
gray shaggy beast and the landscape of purest 
snow, and the sudden vision in the midst of the 
suffering and the storm, added to the terror and 
dread of the surprise. 

Past the boys the brown monster dashed. And 
now, poor Flap, only your long swift legs can save 
you from a most horrible death. 


CHAPTER X 


FOUND 

^"^OOD Brother Joseph and Saint Bernard were 
the closest of friends. Brother Joseph was 
born among the Swiss mountains, lived among its 
white peaks, and still had a fascination for that 
period of the year when the snow came down in 
a whirling storm, or lay deep upon the hills and 
fields. Saint Bernard, too, was partial to the cold 
of winter, for his early days had been spent in the 
great monastery of Saint Bernard in the Alps, 
where his sturdy shoulders had enabled him to 
rescue more than one unfortunate traveler from 
the dread avalanches of winter. 

All night long Saint Bernard guarded the 
sheepfold and during the day when the bell called 
good Brother Joseph to prayer he had no anxiety 
for the safety of his flock, for Saint Bernard was 
ever on the watch. Need I tell you that Saint 
Bernard was a dog — a great brown dog — and 
that he was called after the far-famed monastery 
of Saint Bernard on the top of the snowy Alps? 

109 


no 


Found 


Saint Bernard had but exchanged one monas- 
tery for another. Years before, when the good 
Abbot Eutropius of the Trappists of Kentucky 
had visited the monks of Saint Bernard in the 
Alps, he had brought back with him the dog 
which had become so useful and at the same time 
a real friend of the monks. 

But let me tell you a few words about good 
Brother Joseph and the Trappists of Kentucky. 
More than a century ago the members of the Or- 
der of Our Lady of La Trappe came from France 
and settled in Nelson County and called the place 
Gethsemane. The soil upon which they built their 
home in the new world was poor and rocky; but 
this did not discourage the industrious monks. 
If our farmers had but half their knowledge of 
agriculture, thousands of the barren acres of Ken- 
tucky would bloom like a garden of Paradise. 
The monks meditated each morning on the life 
of Our Divine Lord. Did not Christ, God and 
Man, labor with his hands? Did He not assist 
Saint Joseph and the Blessed Virgin? By thus 
working at the humble task of a carpenter, Christ 
Our Lord set us an example and taught us the 


Found 


hi 


dignity of labor. It was therefore in imitation of 
Christ that the good monks spent a large part of 
the day in toilsome occupations. 

Marvelous indeed were the results of these men 
of God! Along the arid and rocky hillsides, 
where others had never thought of raising crops, 
great vineyards stretched with luscious grapes, 
peach orchards were laden with tempting fruit, 
fields were yellow with grain and odorous with 
clover, a cheese factory was famous for its prod- 
uct, and a saw-mill supplied lumber for building 
in the entire locality. Many a farmer lad has 
gone to school to the monks and returned to double 
the products of his father’s inheritance. A cen- 
tury ago the monks of Gethsemane in Kentucky 
mastered those scientific methods of agriculture 
which are now being taught in State schools and 
which the Department of the Interior is trying 
to bring to the knowledge of the rural population 
of the land. 

But work is only a part of the life of the monks. 
Their principal duty is to serve God and sing His 
praises. Morning and evening their labor is in- 
terrupted for prayer. At midnight when you are 


1 12 


Found 


enjoying sweet repose the monks arise and sing 
the praises of the Almighty. Happy indeed the 
people who have such a religious community in 
their midst ! Only the angels of God know what 
blessings these prayers, this life of fasting, bring 
upon a land. For the monks pray not only for 
themselves, but for all the people. Many a sinner 
struggling with temptation is given the victory 
because the monks are praying for him; many 
a heart that is pressed down with the burdens of 
life is made gladsome because the prayers of the 
monks have won graces for the soul; many an 
unfaithful child of the Church has been won back 
to repentance because the prayers of the monks 
have ascended like incense to heaven and have 
merited the grace that wins salvation. May their 
presence amidst the hills of Nelson County be 
abiding; and for ages to come may the mid- 
night office go up like incense to God for the sal- 
vation of His people. 

Among the Religious who labored and prayed 
at Gethsemane none was more faithful than good 
Brother Joseph. For years he had been upon the 
stage, where his rich mellow voice had won him 


Found 


113 

fame and fortune. One day in far-off Switzer- 
land some monks had invited him to instruct them 
in singing, and when the lessons were over the 
teacher stayed to hear the monks chant the office. 
As he knelt in the silence of the old cloister his 
heart was touched, and ere long he came 
to join the monks, and was known as Brother 
Joseph. 

It was his duty now to take care of the sheep 
of the Gethsemane. True, the proverbial wolf 
was no longer there to attack the sheep ; but there 
were hungry dogs whose ravages were as fatal as 
the attack of wolves; and two legged marauders 
not unfrequently succeeded in carrying off a fat 
lamb. And had it not been for the vigilance of 
Saint Bernard, good Brother Joseph’s task would 
have been a hard one. Often had thieving neigh- 
bors made an effort to poison the watch-dog, but 
without success, for the animal ate nothing except 
from the hands of Brother Joseph. Once, too, 
some one had fired at him ; but the small bird-shot 
did not penetrate beneath the skin. Saint Ber- 
nard would not attack a human being; still his 
enormous size made him most terrible, nor did 


Found 


114 

his master think it prudent to explain to the 
neighbors that the dog would not injure any 
intruder. 

On the night of the snowstorm Brother Joseph 
was sitting in his little cabin adjoining the sheep- 
fold, and Saint Bernard, who always slept near 
the door, was huddling close to the side of his 
kennel to avoid the drifting snow. Suddenly the 
dog leaped from its covering, and the sheep 
bleated and stamped on the wooden floor enclos- 
ure. The monk with lighted lantern came slowly 
forth from his cabin, knowing well that some dan- 
ger threatened his charge. For fully half an hour 
he waited in the drifting snow for the return of 
the watch dog. 

Now, only on certain feasts of the Church are 
the monks allowed to talk ; then they gather in the 
large recreation room and break the long silence. 
On the following Easter morning Brother Joseph 
told his companions of the events of the night of 
the snowstorm ; it was just as thrilling, he claimed, 
as any rescue of old Saint Bernard’s Monastery 
on the top of the Alps. The good monks laughed, 
and Saint Bernard was brought into the recrea- 


Found 


ii5 

tion room to receive the congratulations of the 
Abbot and the other Religious. 

When the great dog had bounded past the two 
boys they stood stupefied with terror. Hungry, 
tired, and dazed by the storm, Raymond Bolt was 
keeping his feet with almost heroic exertion ; but 
now the sudden fright sapped his strength and he 
fell fainting upon the snow. 

It was well for poor Flap that he was fleet of 
foot, and that the body of the shepherd dog sank 
deep into the snow at every bound. So frightened 
was Flap, indeed, that he did not stop until he was 
safe beneath the barn at home after running for 
fully ten miles. 

Finding his pursuit useless, Saint Bernard re- 
turned to the two boys, where his appearance 
caused a second alarm to Raymond who had re- 
covered consciousness, but was unable to stand 
erect. The boys discovered that the dog was a 
friend. They stroked his great long mane and 
shaggy head, and looked to him as to a rescuer, 
who could lead them to a place of safety. Then 
the dog put his big head under the prostrate boy 
and lifted him from the snow. 


n6 


Found 


“He is going to carry you,” stammered Leo 
in astonishment. 

“I can hold on/’ muttered Raymond. 

“He’ll take us somewhere/’ claimed Leo. Just 
then Raymond rolled off into the snow; but his 
companion helped him to crawl upon the broad 
back of the animal and held him there, while the 
dog walked off in the direction from which he 
had come. 

Some minutes later Brother Joseph saw a pic- 
ture which he afterwards described to the assem- 
bled monks in the recreation room — a repetition 
of scenes of the Saint Bernard’s on the Alps. 
Through the blinding snow came the dog carrying 
a rescued traveler. Using his gun for a staff Leo 
Bell trudged bravely by the side of the dog. 

Brother Lewis, the guest-master, had closed 
the great iron door of the Trappist Monastery for 
the night, and had retired to the quiet of his cell 
to pray and wait for the bell to ring for evening 
devotions. ‘Besides the Abbot he was the only 
member of the community who talked to visitors. 

Brother Lewis heard the knocker sound against 
the outer door and, taking the key which lay upon 


Found 


ii 7 

the table, hobbled away to the visitor’s entrance. 
He was quite surprised to meet Brother Joseph 
and Saint Bernard with two strangers, one of 
whom the Brother carried in his arms. Without 
saying a word Brother Joseph kissed the hands 
of the two boys, led them up to the guest-master, 
and, followed by the dog, vanished out into the 
snow. 

Off the good Brother rushed to get something 
for the boys to eat; and as they munched away 
at the bread and potatoes and drank the warm 
tea, the monk heard with astonishment the object 
of their adventure. Then in came Abbot Eutro- 
pius, for whom the lads repeated the story of their 
adventure. 

The town marshal of the little village of Chi- 
cago, who was well known at Gethsemane, was 
soon engaged in earnest conversation with the 
Abbot. In less than half an hour, accompanied 
by his deputy, he knocked at the door of the Ap- 
plegate home, but the family had disappeared. 


CHAPTER XI 


GOOD-BY TO THE SUGAR-CAMP 

A LTHOUGH they had met at the priest’s 
^ ^ house several times previously Kevin Bolt 
and Hamilton Bell were engaged for the first time 
in a serious and confidential talk. There was a 
marked contrast between the two men. The for- 
mer wore a firm, determined look, was low of 
stature, with strong, unflinching countenance, and 
spoke with a slight brogue; the latter was tall, 
slightly stooped, with a benign face, and rolled his 
words slowly as is characteristic of the South- 
erner, and frequently interlarded his conversation 
with the word — “reckon.” 

Kevin Bolt had all but decided to become a 
farmer; Hamilton Bell was about to accept the 
agency for the newly-invented concrete post. 

“I could live contented on the Rapier farm,” 
said Bolt, referring to some property which he had 
examined during the last week. “My wife was 
raised on a farm in New York State, and has often 
118 


Good-by to the Sugar-Camp 119 

expressed her desire to leave the city for a home in 
the country.” 

“I do not know what advice to give,” drawled 
out the farmer. “We Kentuckians are slow to 
adopt new ideas, and as the pastor has explained, 
we are fairly well supplied with posts. If your 
idea is to farm and do nothing else, I see no reason 
why you should not succeed. But, I reckon, to 
live on the farm and depend for a living on the 
sale of your concrete posts is a different matter.” 

“Once my family is settled I can travel through 
the surrounding States in the interest of the in- 
vention.” 

“I doubt of the success of this plan,” inter- 
posed Hamilton Bell. “Either you farm or not 
farm. No man can make a living on a farm, un- 
less he is there not only to supervise the work, 
but to do a large part of the work. So my advice 
would be, either to become a farmer, or to take 
up the business of concrete posts.” 

“The advice sounds reasonable,” acknowledged 
Bolt after some consideration. 

“I am told that there are whole sections of 
Illinois with hundreds of thousands of acres with 


120 


Good-by to the Sugar-Camp 

no timber; I reckon that such a State would fur- 
nish the best market for your posts,” said Mr. 
Bell. 

“This was the opinion of the pastor,” replied 
the inventor. 

“If you make a success of your venture, you 
can count on me as an agent for this part of the 
State,” answered the farmer. 

“Then I will decide on that plan of action. I 
must start home for Chicago to-morrow. I do not 
know how I will persuade the boy to go, for he 
is getting so chummy with your Leo, and is tak- 
ing such an interest in this maple-sugar business 
that he does not want to go back home and to 
school.” 

“It was clever of him to track those Apple- 
gates,” avowed the farmer. 

“I am afraid that it will spoil him ; he is quite 
a friend of one of the best detectives in the city 
— a man named Jerry Sullivan.” 

“Then, I reckon, he has learned how to handle 
a sporting gun,” was the remark of Mr. Bell. 

“And is simply crazy about it. You see it is 
his first experience in the country. With him 


121 


Good-by to the Sugar-Camp 

and his mother both after me, I do not doubt that 
I will finally settle on a farm. I can't understand 
how he got so interested in the maple trees and 
all that.” 

“This will be the last day of the season,” ex- 
plained the farmer. “It is getting warm this 
afternoon ; and I doubt whether it will freeze to- 
night. If it does not the sap will not run to- 
morrow. In fact most of the sap has already 
gone up the trees. But I must be going, sir. I 
am glad that I got to know you. I reckon that 
you will make a success of your posts. Write to 
me, sir, and good luck to you.” Hamilton Bell 
mounted his horse and rode away; while Kevin 
Bolt went to inform the priest of his in- 
tention of starting for Chicago on the following 
day. 

Raymond was quite disturbed by the informa- 
tion that he was to leave his newly-made friend, 
Leo Bell. This first experience of the city lad 
had impressed upon him the joys of country ex- 
istence. The fresh air and outdoor life had given 
him an appetite and relish for his meals which he 
had never known before. He had only one de- 


122 Good-by to the Sugar-Camp 

sire, namely that his father purchase a farm near 
the Bell homestead. 

When he and his father drove away on the 
following morning the good pastor assured them 
that they would always be welcome at his house. 
He even expressed a wish that Mr. Bolt would 
one day be a member of his parish, a 
wish that met with the hearty approval of 
Raymond. 

Late that evening in the Union Depot, at Louis- 
ville, Mr. Bolt and Raymond were waiting for 
the Monon to start for Chicago. The lad was 
about to leave the State where chance had brought 
him, and where he had found friends, enjoyment 
and excitement. The boy arose and walked to 
the freight depot where he had been so roughly 
handled by the clerk. But he was no longer 
penniless; in his pocket he carried the immense 
fortune of eight dollars. Although it was biting 
cold Raymond was warm, as he was wearing 
his overcoat, which his father had brought from 
home. 

Suddenly a familiar form skulked by him. 

“Halloo, kid,” said Raymond. 


Good-by to the Sugar-Camp 123 

“Youse de boy that whipped me,” stammered 
young Applegate. 

“Yes, but I haven’t anything ’gainst you; you 
look cold and hungry. Come on and I’ll buy you 
something to eat.” 

“Honest?” 

“Of course.” 

“Cross your heart and soul?” 

“Yes, come on.” 

“I ain’t had nothin’ to eat to-day,” and a big 
tear dropped from the outcast’s eye. 

“Where are your parents?” asked Raymond, 
as the two walked across the street to a restau- 
rant. 

“Both in jail for stealing.” 

“Where is the maple-sugar they stole from the 
priest ?” 

“How did you know?” stammered the boy. 

“I saw your father’s footprints.” 

“Where?” 

“Through the field to the old hut.” 

“Yes, the wagon broke down on us.” 

“Then you helped your father.” 

“He made me; but you won’t tell on me?” 


124 Good-by to the Sugar-Camp 

“No! We are friends. But what became of 
the maple-sugar?” 

“Hid it down ’long the river.” 

“Where?” 

“Don’t know.” 

“And where have you been lately?” 

“Workin’ for a man.” 

“Did you run away?” The trembling, starv- 
ing castaway looked up into the face of his new 
friend. “You won’t tell on me, and have me 
’rested,” he pleaded. 

“Of course not. But why did you run 
away ?” 

“The man beat me, and wouldn’t give me 
nothin’ to eat.” 

“Would you like to come with me to Chicago?” 

“No, that is where the man lives.” 

“I mean the big city — the one we had the fight 
about.” 

“I don’t know what we fought about; but 
you’re the first boy to whip me.” 

“Will you give this boy a good supper,” said 
Raymond to the waiter as the two sat down at 
table. 


“He looks like a young tramp/’ and the col- 
ored waiter scowled at the trembling lad. 

“He’s my friend; and I’ll pay.” 

“Is he down and out?” and the waiter rushed 
away without getting an answer. 

Then Raymond went on to explain that there 
was a city almost ten times as large as Louisville, 
called Chicago, and that he lived there, and would 
start for home in less than an hour. 

“Won’t you take me along?” pleaded young 
Applegate, who recognized by this time that he 
had found a real friend. 

“Let me see,” replied Raymond, with the de- 
liberation of a bank president. “I have got 
enough for your ticket. You see, Father Dufrere 
gave me eight dollars for my work.” 

Raymond and the waiter saw the small dishes 
emptied in a few seconds. 

“Do you want more?” asked the former. 

“Course, I’m as hungry as when I started.” 

“Get him as much as he can eat; I’ll pay the 
bill.” 

“Land sakes ! He surely am hungry,” and the 
colored gentleman hurried off to refill the dishes. 


126 Good-by to the Sugar-Camp 

Raymond Bolt had learned from his recent 
experience what it was to be left alone friendless 
and penniless in a large city. He was visibly 
touched as he saw the boy before him devouring 
his meal with the avidity of an animal and re- 
called his own plight when the negro had snatched 
the loaf of bread before his famishing eyes. “If 
I take you with me will you be a good boy?” 

“ ’Clare for goodness, and cross my heart and 
soul.” 

“And you won’t steal?” 

“No.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Cross my heart and soul!” 

“And you’ll work when I get you a job?” 

“Cross my heart and soul!” 

“And you won’t fight with the other boys 
where I am going to put you?” 

“So you is goin’ to take me; I’ll be so good, 
’deed I will. Cross my heart and soul three 
times.” 

Young William Applegate found a home and 
friends at the Working Boys’ Club in Chicago, 
conducted by Father Quinn. His experiences 


Good-by to the Sugar-Camp 127 

there would form the subject of a thrilling story. 
He broke his promise about fighting, he was ar- 
rested for stealing, was tied up in a sack and sold 
to a ragman for seventeen cents; but under the 
patient care of good Father Quinn, he gradually 
became a better boy. He is driving an express 
wagon and saving his money; and Father Quinn 
predicts that William Applegate will be an hon- 
orable, honest, and industrious citizen. 


CHAPTER XII 


DIFFICULTIES 

QOME months previous to the incidents de- 
scribed in the previous chapters, Father Du- 
frere had written to friends in Belgium inquiring 
about vestments. Later he was informed that a 
large case bearing his name had been received at 
Bardstown with freight and duties prepaid. The 
priest was puzzled. Could he have ordered the 
vestments instead of simply asking about them, 
as he had intended to do? Who would pay for 
them ? Still they had been shipped, and nothing 
could be done except to bring the box to the 
residence. 

One morning while the priest sat on the porch 
in front of his small residence waiting for the 
wagon which was to bring the case of vestments 
from the depot at Bardstown, the rural delivery 
man came by and handed him two letters. One 
letter was from friends in Belgium and one from 
Chicago. Several times Father Dufrere read 
128 


Difficulties 


129 


the addresses ; then he put aside the one 
from Belgium, and tore open the other en- 
velope. 

He was sure that this last missive would con- 
tain no unpleasant news; but in this he was dis- 
appointed. The information came that the Bolt 
family had met with reverses. In starting his 
project for the manufacture of concrete posts 
Kevin Bolt lost the little money which he had 
saved from his first financial disaster; even the 
home had been sacrificed. Mr. Kevin Bolt had 
a favor to ask of the priest. Could he not take 
care of Raymond for a few months until the fam- 
ily was settled ? The boy himself had made the 
request, as he had such fond recollections of his 
short stay in Kentucky. The request appealed to 
Father Dufrere who decided to give an affirma- 
tive answer before he had finished reading the 
letter. 

The priest was about to open the second let- 
ter when the rumbling of wheels warned him that 
the wagon was approaching. The size of the 
case startled the pastor, but as it was light, con- 
sidering its dimensions, the two farmers who had 


130 


Difficulties 


driven the wagon from Bardstown lifted the bur- 
den to the ground with little exertion. 

The contents of the box offered a still greater 
surprise. There were five sets of vestments — all 
of silk and the most exquisite workmanship. 
There was a cope set with jewels, a chalice, a 
monstrance, a ciborium, a missal, and numerous 
pieces of spotless altar linens. Each article was 
opened with an exclamation of wonder, until 
finally the good old priest broke down in a flood 
of tears. 

When the men withdrew Father Dufrere kissed 
each vessel, each vestment. All these things were 
doubly dear to him. They were from Belgium, 
the land of his birth; they were made in the 
factory close to his home; loving friends had 
placed each article there in the box. Above 
all, this silk and gold was for the church, 
was for God. But who would pay for it 
all? By what mistake had so much money been 
expended ? 

As the priest walked slowly back to the porch 
he was saluted by some one from the pike in front 
of the residence. 


Difficulties 


131 

“Good morning, Mr. Bell,” responded the 
pastor. 

“I was just over to Landford’s peach orchard,” 
said the farmer. “The cold weather has not 
killed the buds, and I reckon we’ll have a fine 
crop.” 

“Then you can pay for something beautiful for 
the church.” 

“I have always tried to do my share,” was the 
reply of the farmer as he rode in close to the yard 
gate. 

“Come in, come in, and look at the beautiful 
vestments and all the other things just received 
from Belgium and made in M. Dolle’s factory — 
the factory just across from the house in which 
I was born. He makes the most beautiful vest- 
ments in Belgium. But who will pay for them !” 
And the priest’s voice was low and pathetic. 

“Perhaps I can pay the bill,” said the farmer 
dismounting and walking into the yard. 

“Don’t make such a promise until you have seen 
the vestments. I do not know how many hun- 
dred dollars it will all cost. I did not order the 
vestments; I only asked about them, and said 


132 


Difficulties 


that ours were getting quite old. Who — who 
will pay for them?” and good Father Dufrere 
shook his head in indication of his grave doubt 
about his being able to collect sufficient money to 
pay such a large bill. 

“I am expecting three thousand dollars on my 
peaches, if there is no frost or the charcoal bur- 
ners can raise the temperature.” Then the farmer 
went on to explain a government report, and to 
give examples of many instances where the tem- 
perature had been raised from six to ten degrees 
by placing charcoal burners at regular intervals 
among the trees. 

“And in the open air?” inquired the priest. 

“Precisely; it is sufficient to keep away the 
frost.” 

“I am afraid that you will need prayers to help 
on such schemes,” suggested the pastor. 

“Just as soon as the seeds are planted we add 
an extra Our Father to the family prayer to ask 
God to bless the crops,” replied the farmer. It 
was not necessary for him to explain that prayers 
were said in common at the Bell household; for 
this was a laudable custom introduced by the early 


Difficulties 


133 


Catholic missionaries in Kentucky and preserved 
faithfully in many families for three generations. 

Reaching the church Father Dufrere displayed 
before the eyes of the amazed farmer the rich con- 
tents of the box from Belgium. “Do you still 
promise to pay for them?” he asked. 

“I have given my word,” was the earnest re- 
ply, “and I reckon I must stick to it ; but, by gosh, 
it will take all the crop ; even if the frost does not 
get a peach.” 

“You can not afford to spend so much money,” 
protested the pastor, “you have a large family, 
and you are not a rich man.” 

“You ask me for money and now you scold 
me for giving it,” laughed Hamilton Bell. 

“I want the money; I want to pay for the rich 
vestments; but it is scarcely fair to let one man 
bear the whole burden.” 

“How much is the bill?” 

“I do not know. The letter is over there on 
the porch. I was really afraid to open it. I fear 
the vestments will cost many hundreds of dol- 
lars.” It was evident that poor Father Dufrere 
was worried about the matter. 


134 


Difficulties 


Back to the porch went the pastor and his gen- 
erous parishioner. 

“I wish that you would open the letter,” said 
the priest, handing the missive to Mr. Bell. 

“Well, I reckon it won’t bite us,” and the far- 
mer tore open the envelope to find out whether 
or not he had made a rash promise. “What kind 
of writing is this?” he asked after scanning a 
page. “I certainly need glasses, for I can’t read 
a word.” 

“Of course not ! Of course not !” mumbled the 
old pastor, “it’s in French, and you can’t read 
French.” 

“I reckon not,” and the farmer returned the 
letter. 

“I, too, must be getting blind,” acknowledged 
the priest after glancing at the lines for a few 
seconds. Then with almost a cry of despair, he 
stammered: “Two thousand — two thousand! It 
must mean francs,” he added — “but I can’t find 
it all. Two thousand ! I didn’t order them ! Two 
thousand francs; that’s four hundred dollars! 
You can’t afford it and I can’t afford it. We’ll 
have to send the case back.” 


Difficulties 


135 

“That case will never go back,” insisted the 
farmer. 

“Let me see — let me see,” muttered good 
Father Dufrere, still reading the lines. The let- 
ter proved to be a most intricate puzzle; and for 
more than an hour the priest and the farmer 
worked at the solution. Finally Mr. Hamilton 
Bell assured Father Dufrere that he understood 
the nature of the payment. 

This M. Dolle who owned the factory in Bel- 
gium devoted his spare time to the study of ento- 
mology. At present he was most anxious to 
make a collection of American beetles. The letter 
contained a complete description of what was 
wanted, the manner of securing the specimens 
and of packing and shipping them. 

The pastor was slow in accepting the meaning 
of the words which he read. The statement was 
simple enough. But how could so many vest- 
ments be paid for by sending boxes of bugs to 
Europe ? 

In vain did the farmer offer an explanation. 
Mr. Hamilton Bell gave some figures to show how 
the extermination of the plum-weevil would 


136 


Difficulties 


alone save the State thousands of dollars; how a 
study of insect life, and a comparison of different 
specimens had led to conclusions of the greatest 
value to the farmer. He stated that his work 
against the plum-weevil promised to bring him 
at least three hundred dollars in one year. 

The old priest refused to accept the explana- 
tions; he refused to believe that any sane man 
would give those costly vestments in exchange 
for two thousand bugs. Would it be right in fact 
to wear the vestments purchased for the church 
in such a manner? 

“Father Dufrere,” said the visitor, changing 
the topic of conversation from the question of 
bugs and insects. “I am going to make another 
promise. I am going to fresco the church. I’ll 
give my note for two thousand dollars. In the 
first place write to your friend in Belgium and 
let him know that we will start at once with the 
collection of beetles. To-morrow is Sunday. 
Tell the people that a friend has given some 
beautiful vestments to the church, and that you 
don’t want to wear them until the church is fres- 
coed. Call for subscriptions. I’ll give my note 


Difficulties 


137 


for the entire amount so as to be able to begin 
the work at once. After the members of the 
parish have subscribed I’ll pay the balance. The 
man who undertakes the job will have nothing to 
lose and nothing to risk. Only do not let the peo- 
ple know that I have given the note.” 

Hamilton Bell was not speaking from sudden 
impulse. Everything about his farm had pros- 
pered of late ; for that prosperity he felt indebted 
to God. While at Mass he had often noticed the 
discolored walls and wished that a subscription 
might be started to fresco the church. The op- 
portune time had come. His words to the pastor 
were humble and simple — meant as a suggestion. 
As such did the pastor understand them. 

For some time there was a silence. The pas- 
tor looked at the half closed letter in his hand; 
the farmer gazed toward the church. 

“Then we’ll fresco the church,” said the latter. 

“In God’s name, yes,” replied Father Dufrere 
slowly. 

Perhaps the work would be finished before 
the coming golden jubilee of his priesthood. Such 
an expectation added to the interest of the under- 
taking. 


CHAPTER XIII 


A NEW FRIEND OF THE FAMILY 

T T AMILTON BELL was the most respected 
A and talented member of the parish. A man 
of more than ordinary industry, he profited by all 
the latest improvements in the science of agri- 
culture. He was the only farmer in the neighbor- 
hood who had learned the worth of government 
publications. He had come to rely entirely upon 
the reports of the Department of Agriculture, and 
had withdrawn his subscription from the various 
monthlies devoted to the farm and stock-raising. 
The reports of the Government were cheap, re- 
liable and up to date. Of late he had taken a spe- 
cial interest in the study of birds and insects 
which were injurious to crops, and had concluded 
that he had been entirely misled in his opinions 
of certain birds and beetles. His neighbors, who 
had not studied the subject, thought his opinions 
foolish; and it was with some difficulty that he 
could induce them even to take an interest in 
such matters. 


138 


A New Friend of the Family 139 

“Hunter,” said he one day to his oldest son, 
a boy of seventeen, “don’t kill that big hawk that 
we were after yesterday.” 

“Why, pa, it got two young chickens this 
morning.” 

“You can shoot, but only to scare it,” were the 
words of the father. “Frighten it away from 
the yard; but don’t kill it.” As the boy listened 
with a look of evident surprise, the father went 
on to explain. “You see I got a Government re- 
port this morning about hawks. They are of great 
value to a farm. They live on mice ; and the num- 
ber that a single hawk will eat in a single day is 
astonishing. The mice which one hawk will eat 
can actually destroy a hundred dollars’ worth of 
wheat or corn in a summer. Now when a hawk 
has been working for you all summer, and has 
saved a hundred dollars; when he has had noth- 
ing but mice and insects for his meals, should 
we not give him an occasional chicken for 
dessert ?” 

“But this big hawk wants more than an occa- 
sional chicken,” objected the boy. 

“Suppose he does! Suppose he gets two a 


140 A Nezv Friend of the Family 

week, three a week, or even four a week dur- 
ing a few weeks of spring, when chickens are 
young and tender. Suppose he does get that num- 
ber — figure it all out and you will find that we 
still owe him for his services. ,, 

“How did they find out all these things about 
hawks ?” asks the boy. 

“An easy matter when there is some method/’ 
replied the father, “an easy matter. Men were 
set to work in certain localities to kill a number 
of hawks each week and to examine their craws ; 
it was a simple sum in arithmetic to find out how 
many mice a hawk would eat each day.” 

“Did the men find anything besides mice in 
the craws of the hawks?” 

“You can see the report when we get to the 
house. I know that some had eaten craw-fish, 
sparrows, and certain insects; but most of them 
seemed to depend entirely on mice for their 
food.” 

Just as he spoke a report of a gun rang out 
from the barn, while a few seconds later a wound- 
ed hawk dropped to the ground in front of Mr. 
Bell and Hunter. 


I 4 1 


A New Friend of the Family 

“Hurrah for that shot!” exclaimed Leo, a 
younger brother, as he emerged from the barn 
and ran toward the prize. “I waited for him 
two hours,” he cried. 

“And you have killed a hundred-dollar bird,” 
shouted Hunter. 

“I would like to see any one beat that shot,” 
claimed the young sportsman, entirely ignoring 
or not understanding the words of his older 
brother. 

“Bring the bird here,” said the father. 

As the boy ran up to seize the hawk, it darted 
at him with the fury of an eagle; for although 
one wing was so badly broken that it could no 
longer fly, it could still leap far into the air. 

“Help me!” cried the lad, as the great wings 
stung his face and the claws cut into his coat. 

“Run! run!” exclaimed the father, who saw 
that the bird could inflict a ghastly wound with 
its powerful talons. 

It was lucky for the boy that strong hands 
were there to help him; even with three against 
it the wounded captive made a gallant fight. It 
yielded only when the farmer had grasped the 


142 A New Friend of the Family 

two feet with one hand, while with the other he 
held the neck of the bird so as to make it power- 
less. 

“He is not badly hurt,” claimed the father; 
“so I’ll patch up his wing and let him go back 
to his nest. That bird is worth fifty dollars.” 

“I thought you said a hundred dollars, pa,” 
put in Hunter. 

“About that amount — anything from fifty to 
a hundred,” replied the father. 

It was some minutes before Leo could under- 
stand the meaning of his father’s remarks. As 
hawks had always been considered nuisances on 
the farm the boy was slow to understand how it 
had suddenly become an offense to kill one, or 
how these pests of the chicken-yard had all at 
once become birds of value. However, the boys 
obeyed orders and ran back to the house to get 
some cotton rags. 

“Don’t forget to bring some dog-fennel,” 
called Mr. Bell, referring to a home-made salve 
that had wonderful antiseptic qualities. 

While the boys were away and the farmer was 
struggling with the wounded captive, along rode 


143 


A New Friend of the Family 

Samuel Tutt, a neighbor. “Do you need any 
help to kill that hawk ?” he asked in a high, rasp- 
ing voice. 

“I need some help to bind its wounded wing,” 
explained the farmer as Mr. Tutt rode nearer. 
“I read in a recent Government report that hawks 
are most valuable on a farm, for they destroy 
mice and protect crops.” 

“I reckon them men don’t know nothin’ about 
hawks,” argued the visitor. “Hawks have been 
nuisances on farms as long as I can remember, 
and I don’t know how they can be changed by 
a man writin’ a book on the subject.” 

“They have found out things that we didn’t 
know before. They have examined the craws of 
hawks and have found that they live mostly on 
mice.” 

“I don’t b’lieve it,” interrupted the visitor, 
leaning over in his saddle and examining the 
creature. “I’d kill the critter this minute.” 

“So you don’t believe the report.” 

“Not a word.” 

“And you didn’t believe the report about the 
tobacco beds.” 


144 A New Friend of the Family 

“Not at first,” stammered Mr. Tutt 

“And you didn’t believe about the seed corn 
last year.” 

“Not until I saw your crop.” 

“And you didn’t believe that the alfalfa was 
better than clover for bottom land.” 

“I reckon I did when I seen the three crops 
in one season.” 

“Well, I reckon you’ll believe about the hawks, 
when I put them to take care of my wheatfield 
and show you that every bird is worth fifty dol- 
lars — yes, sir, more than fifty dollars.” Mr. 
Bell paused. 

“Then grab that one,” for the mate of the 
wounded bird had swooped down, attracted by 
the cries of its companion. 

“I’ll send them both away just as soon as the 
broken wing of this old fellow heals.” 

“Well, I reckon I’ll keep on shooting hawks,” 
drolled out farmer Tutt as he rode away. 
“Hawks has been hawks as long as I can remem- 
ber, and they has been eatin’ chickens as long as 
I can remember; and I don’t want no hawks 
’round my farm.” 


145 


A New Friend of the Family 

By this time the boys had returned with the 
bandages and the salve. The first thing to do was 
to tie the feet of the bird, for his claws were sharp 
and dangerous. Then its beak was tightly 
wrapped with cotton so that it lay on a board 
entirely helpless. While the boys were not per- 
suaded of the theory of the father, they watched 
him work with interest. 

“I am sorry to rob you of your game after 
such a shot,” said he laughingly, looking at Leo. 
“But the old fellow will be afraid to come near 
the chicken-yard in future, and so will be more 
valuable as a mouse catcher.” 

“Do you think you can mend the wing?” asked 
Hunter. 

“Doctors call it setting a wing or bone. I never 
tried it before. But the hawk has nothing to lose 
by my experiment. There, it doesn’t like that ! I 
know it hurts.” 

The bird doctor brought the bones together, 
Leo applied the salve, and put small sticks on 
either side of the fracture, while Hunter bound 
them with strips of cotton. 

Just then the negro workman, named Bob 


146 A New Friend of the Family 

Lindon, came in from the field. He danced for 
joy when he saw the hawk, the very hawk that 
he had been trying for months to kill. On hear- 
ing that the bird was to be set loose, the negro 
refused to believe the statement. That hawk was 
an enemy of the farm; he could not understand 
why it should regain its liberty. 

“Mistah Bell,” he expostulated, rolling his 
large white eyes from side to side, “What am you 
an’ de boys doin’ nohow? Jes’ knock dat critter’s 
head off; dat’s what foh ter do.” 

“Would you kill your dog, Flap?” asked the 
farmer, turning from his work. 

“Cose not! He’se belongs to de fam’ly.” 

“Then this hawk will belong to the family. 
It is worth ten times as much as Flap.” 

“Oh yes,” retorted the negro, “yes, yes, it am 
wo’th a lot foh makin’ chickens git up and git. 
Ax dat ole roosta, ax dem ole hens, and all de 
young chickens — jes ax ’em all, dey’ll tell youse 
how deys hab foh ter be dodgin’ all de day — 
dey’ll tell you how much dat hawk am wo’th.” 

“Here! here! Hold on and be quiet; remem- 
ber that you belong to the family,” said the far- 


A New Friend of the Family 147 

mer to the hawk, which was squirming and gasp- 
ing as the bandage was wrapped. 

“Cose he b’longs ter de fam’ly; and he’se gwine 
foh ter be 'round foh ter git his dinna,” guffawed 
the negro. 

“No, sir! We are going to teach him to live 
on mice. ,, 

“We’ll call him Mr. Mouse,” put in Hunter, 
pressing the captive tightly down on the plank. 

“A good name,” shouted Leo. “Old Mr. 
Mouse.” 

“Cose, cose! Youse kin call ’im mouse; but 
let me tell youse, chile, he is gwine foh ter lib 
on chickens.” Again the negro begged the far- 
mer to kill the bird. 

“No! no!” was the reply. “We’ll let him go 
just as soon as the wound is well. See that other 
one waiting for him,” and Mr. Bell pointed to the 
companion which was soaring gracefully over- 
head. 

“Lan’ sakes alive! Mistah Bell, dis am de 
mos’ foolish ding I’se ebber seed youse do. Why 
dat ole roosta ober dar am a-chucklin’ at you! 
ha! ha!” 


148 A New Friend of the Family 

“That is a neat piece of work,” claimed the 
farmer, ignoring the remarks of the colored 
workman. “In a week we shall know if I am a 
good doctor,” he continued. 

Removing the cotton bandages from the feet 
and head, the farmer placed the bird in a large 
chicken-coop. For fully an hour it beat furiously 
against the side of its prison ; then it tried to pull 
the bandage from its wing. During the first 
three days of its captivity the hawk refused to 
touch the food or drink placed before it. 

On the morning of the fourth day Leo came 
with a live mouse tied to a string. As he dangled 
the little creature before the bird the latter be- 
came restive; then it seized the mouse and in an 
instant tore it to pieces and devoured it. From 
that moment the hawk showed its old fighting 
spirit, flying at any one who approached its prison 
and feeding ravenously on meat and mice thrown 
into the coop. 

Finally Mr. Bell decided that the wound had 
healed and resolved to liberate the captive. All 
the family assembled to watch the results. Reach- 
ing carefully into the coop, the farmer succeeded 


149 


A New Friend of the Family 

in holding the feet and neck of the bird while 
Hunter cut away the bandages. An examination 
proved that the wound had entirely healed. “One, 
two, three !” shouted the farmer, and at the last 
word he tossed the hawk into the air. 

It fluttered and came down on Lindon’s head. 
“Git ’way! git ’way! I’se ain’t no roosta,” cried 
out the negro. 

The boys roared with laughter as the work- 
man tried to shake off the bird. Released a sec- 
ond time it flew to a fence, frightening the 
roosters and hens, and sending them in a flurry 
across the barnyard. 

Making another effort the hawk reached a 
cedar-tree. Wishing to test its powers of flight 
the boys threw stones to frighten it away. To 
the amazement of all the bird circled the yard, 
rising into the air as it flew, until finally it soared 
away and was met by its companion. 

“Good-by, Mr. Mouse!” cried out the boys. 

“Good-by, Mr. Chicken!” shouted the negro. 


CHAPTER XIV 


BACK TO KENTUCKY 

<C WELCOME back to Kentucky!” Father 
Dufrere had driven to the station at 
Bardstown to meet his young friend Raymond. 
“Welcome back to Kentucky,” he said, as the boy 
rushed toward him from the train. 

“Oh, it is so fine, and no smoke and dirt!” 
exclaimed the boy. 

“Aunt Emily has talked of you for a week,” 
said the priest. 

“And I am sure that she will have some waf- 
fles for me,” rejoiced the boy, who had not for- 
gotten the savory dish. 

The two drove briskly over the pike, and soon 
the little church-steeple appeared among the 
trees. Not waiting for the buggy to stop, the 
lad leaped to the ground, and dashed away for 
the kitchen. “Here is your little tramp come 
back again,” he exclaimed, bursting into the 
room. 


150 


Back to Kentucky 


151 

“De Lawd bless de chile,” and Aunt Emily- 
grasped the boy in her arms and welcomed him 
with a motherly kiss. 

All the way from the depot Raymond had 
talked of Leo Bell, and as the priest understood 
how anxiously the two were awaiting each other 
he suggested that Raymond ride over to the Bell 
farm that same afternoon. So Raymond had 
scarcely finished his dinner of delicious waffles 
when he was going at a brisk gait over the dirt 
road toward the home of his young friend. 

The entire family came out to meet him on the 
porch and Mrs. Bell received him with the same 
motherly kiss that Aunt Emily had bestowed. 

Then Mr. Bell informed Raymond that he had 
come on time for some work for the Government, 
a work that with Father Dufrere’s permission 
he was to begin on the following morning. 

Leo Bell and Raymond Bolt were the happiest 
boys in Kentucky. Although Mr. Bell had 
warned them that the sport would soon become 
an irksome duty, and at the outset had exacted 
a promise that neither would desist until the 
work was completed, he did not succeed in im- 


152 


Back to Kentucky 


pressing upon them that they were undertaking 
anything serious. Would a boy ever grow tired 
of a sporting gun, or of roaming over fields, and 
through woods and orchards? 

The father had already explained to the boys 
the object of the work which they were to do for 
the Government Station at Frankford. Being 
interested in the relative value of birds upon a 
farm, Mr. Hamilton Bell had sent several com- 
munications to the officials, who were impressed 
with his interest in the matter, and the intelligent 
questions which he asked. He was therefore in- 
vited to co-operate with the Department of Ento- 
mology in gathering certain data. The records 
in regard to jay-birds and quails were incom- 
plete. Were they useful on a farm as insect de- 
stroyers, or did they live on grain and fruit? It 
was known by all that quails fed in wheatfields 
and that jay-birds picked at grapes and mellow 
fruit. But it was not known to what extent they 
destroyed noxious insects. The farmer was re- 
quested to assist the Government in its investiga- 
tions in regard to this last question. He was to 
represent the middle section of the State, while 


Back to Kentucky 153 

two other assistants were to collect information 
for the eastern and western parts. 

Mr. Bell after signing a written agreement to 
undertake the work was supplied with charts of 
fruit and grain destroying insects. Full direc- 
tions were also sent for dissecting the birds and 
examining the contents of their craws. It re- 
quired some patience and skill, and expert knowl- 
edge to recognize the dismembered insects as 
found in the birds. As an assistance to the work 
the farmer proposed that the boys make a col- 
lection of insects and try to learn their names. 
In this, too, they were assisted by Government 
publications which gave colored plates of the dif- 
ferent insects with names, dimensions, and other 
details. 

Early on the following morning Raymond 
came over to the home of Leo, where the father 
of the latter was to give them the first instruc- 
tions for their work. 

“Boys,” said he, “you are going to act as Gov- 
ernment employees. Here is a sample of the blank 
page on which the reports are to be made,” he 
explained, as he pointed to the various columns 


154 


Back to Kentucky 


for the date of the examination, the name of the 
bird, the day when it was killed, and the con- 
tents of the craw. 

“We’ll begin with the jay-birds; I hear half a 
dozen jabbering away out there now,” in- 
terrupted Leo, rubbing his hands with evident 
delight. 

“Who will take the first shot ?” asked Raymond 
all excited. As he spoke he pulled his gun to 
his shoulder and aimed at an imaginary jay. 

“Is that gun loaded?” inquired the farmer. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Throw out the shells at once ; you should never 
carry a loaded gun into a house.” As the boy 
began to carry out orders, Mr. Bell interrupted 
him. “Just hold the barrel pointed toward the 
ceiling, and don’t come in with a loaded gun 
again. Step outside and kill one of those jay- 
birds.” 

“Shall I try one on the wing?” asked the young 
sportsman. 

“No, we want to be sure of the bird for ex- 
amination ; you will have all spring and summer 
for shots on the wing.” 


Back to Kentucky 


155 


“Poor Mr. Jay-bird,” sighed Raymond as he 
raised his gun toward the easy mark just over 
head. The bird dropped at the foot of the boy, 
while its companions screamed and darted off to- 
ward the orchard. 

In a few seconds Mr. Bell had opened the craw. 
Not an insect of any kind was found; but the 
jay had evidently made its breakfast on some 
corn-bread thrown to the chickens. 

“Don’t be disappointed, boys,” explained the 
father as he noted the results of the first investi- 
gation on the blank, “don’t be disappointed. The 
officials will be glad to get the results to know how 
we started, even if we did make a mistake. Go 
over to that cluster of locusts,” said he, pointing 
to some trees in a field, “get two birds, and let us 
see what they had for breakfast.” 

As a raw wind was blowing the jays had sought 
the woods for protection; and it was not until 
noon that the young huntsmen returned with the 
two specimens. 

Again the craws were examined only to find 
each stuffed with corn. 

“It is plain that jay-birds are not going to look 


Back to Kentucky 


156 

for bugs and insects if we feed them with corn- 
bread in the yard, and corn in the pig-pen,” 
explained the farmer. 

“It is too cold for bugs and insects,” claimed 
Leo, “we nearly froze out in the woods.” 

“I feel sorry for you,” said the father, “but re- 
member that you are working for the Govern- 
ment. The agreement is for ten specimens to be 
examined each day, two days in a week. So you 
will have to go out in the cold woods and look up 
some more jay-birds.” 

“I believe they heard about the affair,” put in 
Raymond. “They flew away before we got a 
quarter of them.” 

“They are very foolish ; for remember that we 
are getting data to convince people that such birds 
are useful on a farm. At present jay-birds are 
despised. We are their friends; we are giving 
them a chance to prove that they have a right to 
live. Of course we have to sacrifice a few to save 
the whole tribe.” 

“It’s raining,” said Leo, “so we can’t go after 
more birds to-day.” 

“That is just where you are mistaken,” replied 


Back to Kentucky 157 

the father. “You remember what I said this 
morning. Remember that you are working for 
the Government. We must have those specimens 
at any cost.” 

Out into the rain the two boys went; into the 
thickets and woods and out again to clusters of 
trees in the fields. Now and then they heard a 
cry of alarm around them, but never a bird in 
sight. 

“I didn’t know that a jay-bird had any sense; 
but they evidently know what we want and are 
hiding,” said Leo as he put his gun against a fence 
and stood rubbing his hands. 

“Didn’t your father say that we were the 
friends of the birds, that we wanted to prove that 
they were useful, and should not be killed?” ar- 
gued Raymond. 

“Yes, but you see jay-birds are not very pa- 
triotic ; none are willing to give up their lives to 
save the jay-bird country.” 

“If we only had a way of making them draw 
straws.” 

Bang! went Leo’s gun, for just as Raymond 
was talking two jays flew overhead. “There is 


158 Back to Kentucky 

one bird that won’t wait to draw straws,” cried 
Leo. 

“Nor will that one!” shouted Raymond, who 
had taken a chance shot and had succeeded against 
all expectation. 

“We have only five more to get,” put in Leo 
as he stooped and picked up his prize. “Sorry to 
hurt you, old fellow, but remember that we are 
working for the good of the jay-bird family.” 

“He is a pretty fellow,” remarked Raymond, 
as he brought in his bird. 

“Yes, but so noisy,” replied Leo; “if he would 
only sing instead of jabbering, and gabbing, and 
scolding, and fighting all day.” 

Bang ! bang ! went the double report from Ray- 
mond’s gun and two unlucky birds dropped. 

“Where did they come from?” asked Leo in 
astonishment. 

“Don’t know.” 

“Why, this is real dove hunting. If you ever 
hunt doves and can’t find them, all that you have 
to do is to shoot off your gun a few times; the 
doves hear the report and get excited, and begin 
to fly in every direction. Nine times out of ten 


Back to Kentucky 


159 


one or more will come in your direction.” But 
Leo’s explanation was of no real interest, for the 
rain was falling faster and the boys were tired. 

“Where can we find more jays?” asked Ray- 
mond. 

“Don’t know,” replied Leo, and he picked up 
the two birds and put them into his game-sack. 

For a long time the boys trudged on, but not 
another jay did they kill. It was with drooping 
spirits that they reached the house after dark, 
conscious that they had failed in keeping the con- 
ditions as Government officials. 

“Don’t worry,” replied the father in answer to 
their story. “I killed four birds in the orchard, 
for fear that you might fail. Luckily one of 
these birds had made a feast on lady bugs, had 
devoured several ants, with some beetles.” 

“Well, we worked hard enough!” exclaimed 
Leo. 

“But we must get the birds even if I have to 
go after them,” said the father. “We must get 
twenty birds each week, even if I have to drive 
fifty miles to get them. I have started this work 
for the Government and intend to do it well. But 


160 Back to Kentucky 

you will not find a worse day than this — cold, 
rainy, and windy. It is hard to find just where 
birds do hide in such weather. However, this 
must be a lesson, too, for us, and we must get at 
the work early each day. No; that won’t do, 
either,” said he, “we must have two specimens in 
the afternoon to see what the birds have fed on 
in the morning.” 

The boys promised to take the work seriously. 
It was agreed that it would be a good plan to 
drive several miles from the house in the morn- 
ing, so as to keep the birds around the house and 
the neighboring farms in reserve, in case the 
morning hunt proved unsuccessful. 

This plan was adopted and weeks went by with- 
out the boys failing to bag the required number 
of jay-birds. 

Throughout the neighborhood the scheme 
created more than usual interest and talk. Some 
rejoiced that the jay-birds of the country were 
being exterminated, and failed entirely to realize 
the scientific nature of the work. Some of the 
older farmers when told of the object of the work 
derided the scheme, and said that Mr. Bell should 


Back to Kentucky 161 

be busy plowing and planting, and not wasting 
his time in cutting open dead birds to find out 
what they had eaten for breakfast or dinner. 

Hamilton Bell only laughed at the criticisms 
and rumors. If the birds had devoured the bugs 
whole it would have been an easy matter to count 
the number of insects ; but this was not the case. 
It required patient labor to count the legs and 
wings of the little creatures, to consult tables, and 
pictures, and descriptions of the various insects. 

Frequently a microscopic examination was 
necessary. The boys were gradually taught to 
do the dissecting and record the results. 

As the work progressed the information proved 
in favor of the jay family, for many noxious in- 
sects were found in the craws of the birds. How- 
ever, it was known that the jay-bird delighted 
in mellow apples, and pears, and grapes. All this, 
of course, would be marked against him. If dur- 
ing the summer months, when he was needed to 
keep down the insects, he changed his diet, and 
lived on fruit and grain, he would no doubt, be 
put down as an enemy of the farm. But the first 
weeks of the investigation were all in favor of 
Mr. Jay-bird. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE BEAM IN THY BROTHER^ EYE 
HE work of frescoing the church was begun. 



Father Dufrere had found the people gen- 
erous and enthusiastic beyond all expectations. 
On the Sunday after the vestments had been re- 
ceived the pastor met each family at the church 
door and invited the members to look at the costly 
presents. Before the sermon he explained that 
he wished a meeting of the men to consult about 
raising means to fresco the church ; he would not 
use the vestments, he said, until the house of God 
was beautifully decorated. 

At the meeting Hamilton Bell arose and made 
some remarks which would seem to indicate that 
he was the originator of the project. This was 
unfortunate, as already there was a spirit of jeal- 
ousy among the neighbors. In fact Mr. Bell was 
not entirely free from blame. He had succeeded 
in several projects; and had he been content with 
success he would have been spared considerable 


The Beam in Thy Brother's Eye 163 

trouble. But he began to find fault with and 
openly criticise those neighbors who were con- 
tent to go along with the old methods of farm- 
ing. There were some angry replies from farmers 
Sanders, Landford, and others; but good Father 
Dufrere restored harmony and got from each 
parishioner a promise of a contribution. It was 
agreed that nothing was to be paid until late in 
summer. 

Spring came on rapidly and with it the burst- 
ing of leaf and bud. Although the peach-trees 
were not in bloom, it was the most dangerous 
period of the year for the crop. Throughout the 
Bell orchard charcoal-burners had been arranged. 
Farmer Landford had also taken up the scheme, 
while Mr. Sanders had consented to use some of 
the burners which were not needed by Mr. Bell 
and were sent free. 

The preparations were not too soon, for one 
day in March a cold wind set in from the north, 
followed by a slight snow-fall and threat of a 
heavy frost. 

“Well, boys,” said farmer Bell, “no sleep to- 
night.” 


164 The Beam in Thy Brother's Eye 

“We can stand one night/’ said Raymond Bolt, 
who had been invited over to assist at the new 
work. 

“Why, it will be just like camping out,” put 
in Leo, “only instead of one fire we’ll have fifty.” 

“Yes, but it’s work to watch the fifty fires,” 
said the father. “You can’t sit around one fire 
and talk ; you must be going all night.” 

Nothing could convince the boys that the ex- 
perience would be anything but play. The only 
disappointment came when they were ordered to 
bed early with a promise that they would be called 
before midnight and would be left to watch the 
fires until morning. 

While Mr. Bell and the boys were going at 
their novel work with enthusiasm, Mr. Tutt was 
busy in another way. Chancing to pass by the 
Landfords’ at dusk and observing the farmer at 
work with the charcoal-burners, he remarked in 
a contemptuous way, “Halloo! So you has be- 
come one of Bell’s workmen, has you?” 

Mr. Tutt was a dried-up, weazen-faced man 
with a sharp, rasping voice — a voice that seemed 
to strike and irritate. Landford was not in the 


The Beam in Thy Brother's Eye 165 

best of humor. He had plowed all day, and now 
he had the additional work of tending to the 
burners all night. “Yes,” said he, “that’s just 
it! Just it! What a fool I was to go into the 
business !” 

“Don’t do it,” insisted Tutt. “Kick the darned 
old things to the devil.” 

“I wish I had done it; but it’s too late after 
losing so much time.” 

“This man Bell is trying to run the country,” 
continued Tutt. “He’ll be candidate for sheriff 
if things keep on this way.” 

“You are right, I reckon,” agreed Landford. 

“I know’d all about that tobacco business long 
before him,” claimed the visitor. “I was going 
to introduce it, and now he claims the credit.” 

“I reckon you are right.” 

“We’d all’ve known about the alfalfa; it was 
coming into the State, and now he gets the credit 
for being the first to introduce it into the coun- 
try.” 

“I reckon so — I reckon he does.” 

“Then all this thing about bugs,” muttered 
Tutt, in his high raspy voice. “All this thing 


1 66 The Beam in Thy Brother’s Eye 

about bugs is crazy; bugs does eat a little fruit 
and grain ; but they ain’t so bad. There ain’t no 
use killing oneself about ’em.” 

“I reckon I am killing myself with these old 
charcoal - burners,” added farmer Landford. 
“Plowed all day, and got to plow all to-morrow ; 
and now I am working all night.” 

“Don’t do it,” again insisted Tutt. “Nobody 
never heard of such foolishness. If the frost is 
going to get the peaches, it’ll get ’em.” 

“Do you think so?” Landford dropped a box 
of charcoal. 

“I know it. I reckon you’d have to put the 
trees inside the house if you wanted ’em out of the 
frost. If you raise a peach,” claimed the visitor, 
“Hamilton Bell will go around telling the peo- 
ple of the county that he showed you how to do 
it.” 

“No, he won’t!” blurted out the owner of the 
orchard. “I’ll jest leave a third of the trees to 
take care of themselves, and if they raise as much 
fruit as the rest, then it will be a proof that the 
charcoal wasn’t needed.” 

“Do it ! do it !” urged Tutt. 


The Beam in Thy Brother’s Eye i6j 

“I reckon, I will.” 

“And don’t take no more advice from Hamil- 
ton Bell.” 

“I reckon, I won’t.” 

“And don’t let no more of them books about 
bugs come to your house.” 

“I’ll burn every one of ’em.” 

“That’s right! that’s right,” repeated Tutt, 
proud of the fact that he had prevailed. He rode 
away leaving his neighbor in the worst of moods. 

Toward midnight Mr. Bell awoke the boys, ex- 
plained the nature of the work, and warned them 
against neglect. A thermometer hanging on a 
peach-tree in the midst of the burners registered 
four degrees above freezing; while another at 
some distance from the fires fell below thirty-two. 
The critical time would come about four o’clock 
in the morning. Being anxious to know whether 
Sanders and Landford were succeeding with the 
work, he saddled his horse and rode away to- 
ward their farms. 

This visit of Hamilton Bell was most unfor- 
tunate, for as the hours passed Landford had be- 
come more and more angry. His irritable wife, 


1 68 The Beam in Thy Brother’s Eye 

who came to bring a lunch after midnight, stirred 
the husband to still greater ire. The appearance 
of farmer Bell was a signal for an outburst of 
wrath and profanity. 

Then the visitor became angry. Words were 
followed by blows and soon the two strong men 
were in each other’s grasp. The wife, taking up 
a burner full of live coals, strove to throw them 
upon the head of the man who had caused the 
trouble. The shower of fire separated the oppo- 
nents. 

“This is what I get for my work for this 
family,” protested farmer Bell. 

“We don’t want your help,” came the reply 
emphasized with a curse. 

“Then why didn’t you tell me at first.” 

“I tried; but you hadn’t sense enough to keep 
away.” 

“Get out of this orchard and off of this farm,” 
cried the wife. 

For a moment Hamilton Bell stood pale and 
trembling; then without uttering another word 
he slowly retreated to his horse, mounted, and 
rode away. 


The Beam in Thy Brothers Eye 169 

Passing by the farm of Sanders he found none 
of the burners with live coals. Creeping cau- 
tiously toward the orchard and examining the 
burners, he concluded that only a slight fire 
had been started in a few of them early in the 
night. 

This experience was a lesson to Hamilton Bell. 
He resolved in the future to keep his experiments 
to himself. If others came to inquire he would 
be willing to share his knowledge ; but would not 
thrust his favors upon his neighbors. 

Before sunset of the following day every neigh- 
bor within a radius of many miles knew of the 
fight in the orchard. Of course the report grew 
as it traveled. Hamilton Bell was accused of try- 
ing to kill farmer Landford, who in turn, it was 
said, sought the life of his foe. Mrs. Landford, 
so it was gossiped, became angry with her hus- 
band, who insisted on her giving him a lunch at 
midnight, and took revenge by pouring a shovel 
of live coals on his head. 

The story reached good Father Dufrere in a 
most exaggerated form. He could not decide 
who bore the burden of the blame; but this was 


170 The Beam in Thy Brother's Eye 

certain, that the two men had been a source of 
scandal to the community. The priest resolved to 
demand a public penance of the offenders. Post- 
ing himself at the church door on the following 
Sunday, he awaited the arrival of the men. Far- 
mer Bell was the first to come. 

“Hamilton Bell, ,, said the pastor in a deep, 
commanding voice, “you are not worthy to enter 
the house of God. Stand here upon the steps, ask 
pardon and in public.” 

“He was the first to ” 

“Stop,” interrupted the old pastor, bringing his 
finger to his lips in indication of silence. “There 
is no excuse! There is no excuse!” 

“After all I have done for this church !” 

“Even if you built the church, you are not 
worthy to pray in it.” 

A few of the parishioners who just then walked 
up, were motioned aside, while the priest and the 
offender stood alone in front of the door. Farmer 
Landford came with his family, not noticing the 
crowd that was gathering near the church door. 
Suddenly he heard the voice of the pastor bidding 
him approach. 


The Beam in Thy Brother’s Eye 171 

“Fll not talk to that man,” he said as he drew 
near. 

“You will, or you must not enter God’s church 
to-day.” 

“He was to blame!” 

“You are both like our Mother Eve, blaming 
the other party. Come to these steps.” 

There was a light tittering among the crowd, 
which only irritated the two men the more. No 
other power on earth could have commanded the 
obedience of those offenders. For a moment they 
stood silent and sullen. 

“Come on, my child, come on,” were the firm, 
calm words of the pastor; “and you stand where 
you are,” he said, turning to Mr. Bell, who was 
edging to one side of the steps. 

“Come, my children, come and show that you 
have forgiven, that you love one another.” 

There was something in the voice, in the man- 
ner, in the authority of the old, white-haired pas- 
tor that went to the very souls of the culprits. 
Farmer Landford walked slowly up the steps in 
the presence of the crowd. There was no laugh- 
ing or even smiling now ; the scene was solemn ; it 


172 The Beam in Thy Brother’s Eye 

was the power of the Church speaking through 
the voice of a feeble but venerable old man. That 
power prevailed. The two men shook hands. 

“These men have been a scandal to the parish 
by quarreling and contention,” said the pastor, 
turning to the crowd; “but now they have more 
than atoned for their fault, and God has pardoned 
them.” 

In silence the two men walked into the church ; 
in silence the crowd followed. 


CHAPTER XVI 


SOME OF MR. TUMBLE-BUG'S FRIENDS 

OT satisfied with his study of birds which 
were destroyers of pests, Mr. Hamilton 
Bell, with the assistance of the two boys, under- 
took to make a collection of the various insects 
of the neighborhood. He had decided to limit his 
observations to beetles, which he defined as bugs 
with two sets of wings, the first pair serving as 
protection for the second. 

He was sitting near the fireplace one evening 
late in March with the boys near by. Unfolding 
a small package just received from the Govern- 
ment station, he surprised the lads by stating that 
he had enough poison to kill a small army. At 
the same time he showed the picture of a skull 
and two bones, and read the name of the contents 
of the bottle : Ferrous Cyanide . 

“Pigs can eat poison, can’t they, pa?” asked in- 
quisitive Leo. 

“Yes, and boys can, but may not; so don’t try 
i73 


174 Some of Mr. Tumble-bug’s Friends 

it.” He put a small part of the poison in a bot- 
tle. “This glass stopper is necessary,” he ex- 
plained, “for the fumes which come from the 
poison are themselves dangerous; besides, it is 
the fumes and not the poison which we are to use. 
You know that smoke will cure a ham ; in the same 
way we are going to cure insects in the fumes of 
this poison. You will notice that I am adding 
a little cotton and pressing it down so as to hold 
the cyanide at the bottom of the bottle, and to 
keep it away from the bugs. When you are out 
hunting for jay-birds, turn up the flat stones to 
find whether there are any beetles under them; 
occasionally break open the bark of dead trees. 
Drop the specimens into one of these bottles. You 
will find that the poison will kill them in a few 
minutes. At the same time the fumes will cure 
the insect so that it will keep for years.” 

“What are you going to do with the beetles?” 
Raymond wanted to know. 

“I need a few of each kind to compare with 
the specimens found in the birds ; but I want them 
also for another reason. I won't tell you now; 
but later you will know, and will be surprised to 


Some of Mr. Tumble-bug's Friends 175 

find out the value of the insects which we have 
all considered worthless/’ 

“If we kill the insects the birds won’t have 
anything to live on,” argued Leo; “and then they 
will take to eating grain and fruit.” 

“Don’t be alarmed; you will never be able en- 
tirely to destroy the insects ; all that we can hope 
to do is to diminish the number.” 

“Must we collect any lady-bugs?” asked 
Hunter. 

“Certainly. I reckon we must get every kind 
of beetle in the State.” 

“But you told us that lady-bugs were friends 
of the farmer,” objected Raymond. 

“Certainly I did, and there is no in- 
tention of killing them off ; still I want 
some for my collection. It must be complete, you 
understand.” 

It was agreed that on the following morning 
the boys were to start for their first quest of 
beetles. Leo carried his sporting gun, while Ray- 
mond had a pick for digging up flat stones from 
the frozen ground. 

Down to the woods among the maple-trees 


iy6 Some of Mr. Tumble-bug's Friends 

they went, where two months before they had 
made maple-sugar. “There are some bees at 
work,” cried Leo, coming up to a maple-tree 
where the sap was oozing out of one of the holes 
from which a spile had fallen. 

“No,” insisted Raymond, knocking one of the 
little creatures to the ground with his hat. “This 
is a beetle — see its hard wings and the soft wings 
beneath — this is a beetle.” 

Before long the boys had two dozen specimens 
in their bottles. 

“I wonder whether papa will find the name of 
these bugs?” asked Leo; “he said that we must 
look under the ground for specimens until the 
warm weather came.” 

“See how quickly the poison kills them,” re- 
plied Raymond, watching the captives writhe in 
the fumes of the bottle. The beetle was about 
half an inch long, light brown, with irregular 
black spots. It proved to be one of a species 
known as Euryomia Inda, quite common in the 
Central States. While some entomologists pro- 
nounced it a pest, others proved that it did not 
attack trees or fruit, but simply fed on the sap 


Some of Mr. Tumble-bug's Friends 1 77 

which flowed from wounds made by other in- 
sects. 

“Here is a family of lady-bugs,” shouted Leo, 
as he pulled away a flat stone. 

“It is too bad to disturb them, even before they 
have had time to enjoy a few warm days,” ob- 
jected Raymond. 

“Yes,” was the reply, “but papa says it’s for 
the sake of science and learning ; so here they go.” 
Soon the pretty little creatures had died in the 
poison fumes. 

Another species of beetles was found in great 
quantities. Leo called it the wheat-beetle, as he 
had seen large numbers under the wheat shocks 
every summer. 

Mr. Bell found the Latin names in the books 
quite puzzling; but the colored plates and ac- 
curate descriptions enabled him to verify each 
kind of specimen which the boys brought in. 

Nothing gave the lads more fun than a green, 
velvety-looking bug with a yellowish margin. It 
had some long name which the boys could not 
remember; but they recalled the peculiar habit 
which it was said to have of walking on its back. 


178 Some of Mr. Tumble-bug’s Friends 

Capturing a bug which seemed to fit in with the 
description of this strange creature, they turned 
it on its back and to their surprise it walked 
rapidly. 

Days went by rapidly and the weather grew 
warm. Leo attended the district school; Ray- 
mond did chores for the priest, and studied in 
private. Still they had one day in a week to 
look for beetles, and an hour or two each 
day after class, which was dismissed at one 
o’clock. 

Woods and orchards were soon in leaf and 
blossom. Each week, in fact almost every day, 
some new variety of beetle would appear. 

The reader will be surprised to learn that one 
species of beetle was captured in a wholesale fash- 
ion until half a bushel was collected. In reading 
over the publications sent out by the Government, 
Mr. Bell was much interested in the little creature 
known as the plum-weevil. The fruit-beetle 
would have been a more appropriate name, as the 
insect is the enemy of every form of fruit that 
grows in the orchard. “It is too bad,” said he 
to his wife and the boys, “we lose hundreds if not 


Some of Mr. Tumble-bug's Friends 179 

thousands of dollars worth of fruit each year; 
and yet if this account is true, we could save the 
amount with but little trouble.” Here the far- 
mer produced a few specimens which he had 
brought from the orchard in his handkerchief. 
It was an oblong-oval bug about a fifth of an 
inch in length. The color was a dark brown 
spotted with yellow and white. 

“How does that little thing destroy a thousand 
dollars worth of fruit?” asked one of the chil- 
dren. 

“And it is such a pretty little thing,” chimed 
in another. 

“It is a spoiled little thing,” said the father. 
“It lives on the very best plums, apples, and cher- 
ries.” 

“How are we going to get rid of it?” asked 
Leo, who felt the importance of his work in as- 
sisting the Government. 

“It will take us five years to do the work,” ex- 
plained the father; “even then we can’t hope to 
exterminate the pest, but only reduce the number 
so that the work of destruction will amount to 
very little. Late in the evening or early in the 


180 Some of Mr. Tumble-bug’s Friends 

morning, when the bugs are torpid or sleepy, we 
spread an awning under a tree and give it a quick 
stroke with an axe. The bugs are stunned, and 
drop to the ground on the awning.” 

“Must we go to every tree?” asked Leo, who 
saw that the scheme meant work. 

“Of course; what a foolish question,” con- 
tinued the father. “Then, we must keep a few 
hogs in the orchard to eat the fruit that falls ; for 
each apple or plum has a worm in it. In three 
weeks this worm will be a beetle ready to destroy 
more fruit, or will hibernate in the winter and 
begin work next spring. You see that in our 
scheme we catch the weevil on the tree, and the 
w r orms on the ground before they have time to 
turn into beetles.” 

All this was most interesting for the children. 
At the country school the teacher found Master 
Leo asking questions in the agriculture class; 
questions that made her read and study. 

That same night the father with the two boys 
went to the orchard to try the scheme. Some 
twenty cherry trees were laden with young fruit. 
Bob Lindon protested about this wasting time 


Some of Mr. Tumble-bug’ s Friends 181 

catching bugs; still he was required to help in 
the work. 

The awning was spread under a tree; and at 
one stroke of the axe down came a shower of 
plum-weevils. 

“Poah liddel critters,” sighed the negro, “youse 
habin’ hard times.” 

“But the chickens will have a good time,” put 
in Mr. Bell. 

“Have we got to do this work every night?” 
Leo wanted to know. 

“Of course,” answered the father, “when the 
young apples and plums come out we must save 
them in the same way.” 

Early on the following morning the farmer 
took the bucket, in which the insects had been 
put, and carried it to the chicken-yard, where the 
young brood enjoyed a feast. 

The work on the plum-trees was begun before 
the fruit appeared, so that the entire crop was 
saved from the pest. This alone, as the farmer 
avowed, more than compensated him for the 
work and trouble. 

As Leo and Raymond continued their search 


1 82 Some of Mr. Tumble-bug's Friends 

after new insects, they were surprised at the num- 
ber and variety : longicorn and tiger-beetles, pea- 
weevils, hickory and milkweed bugs; all added 
beauty and color to the collection. 

Mr. Bell took charge of the specimens, keeping 
a few of every kind for himself. Others he put 
in a small wooden box, packed them in sawdust, 
and sent them to M. Dolle, Rue S. Vincent, Brus- 
sels, Belgium. When he was in doubt about the 
name or variety he sent the specimens to the 
Government station at Frankford. He received 
most encouraging letters from the Department 
with the request to interest other members of the 
community in such work. It was suggested that 
some destructive insect be studied and a report 
be made. The information came, too, that cer- 
tain species of insects, which had been brought 
into the Eastern States from Europe, were ap- 
pearing in central Pennsylvania; but that no 
specimens had yet been found west of the Alle- 
ghenies. A fifty-dollar prize was offered to the 
first who found one of these bugs or sent in a 
new variety to the station. 

This announcement made the boys doubly care- 
ful in their work. 


CHAPTER XVII 


ANOTHER SURPRISE FOR THE BOYS 

cc OME, boys,” said Mr. Hamilton Bell, “we 
need two small ponds on the farm.” 

“For the cattle?” asked Hunter. 

“For watering vegetables?” put in Leo. 

“Both wrong,” replied the farmer. “What is 
your guess?” he inquired as he turned to Ray- 
mond Bolt. 

“I am afraid to guess,” was the boy's doubt- 
ing answer. “You have shown us so many new 
things lately that I believe this is another sur- 
prise for us.” 

“It will be a surprise to most of the farmers,” 
said Mr. Bell. “But I am convinced of its use 
and am going to try it. I am sure that none of 
you have ever heard of a man setting to work to 
have a toad-hatchery.” 

“Father is fooling us this time,” laughed Hun- 
ter. 

“Of course he is,” argued Leo. Raymond was 
of the same opinion. 


183 


184 Another Surprise for the Boys 

But the father insisted that he was not joking. 
Every toad, he claimed, was worth five dollars to 
a farm. 

“Will you give us five dollars for every one 
we kill for you?” asked Raymond. 

“Not at all! not at all. I would rather give 
you five dollars not to kill one. A dead toad is 
useless. It’s the live toad that we want.” 

“Then you owe me twenty-five hundred dol- 
lars,” argued Leo, “for I didn’t kill five hundred, 
and they are all alive and on the farm.” 

“We want several thousand on this farm this 
summer. If we could only train those hawks 
not to eat the toads ; but that is the trouble — one 
useful creature eats another.” The party had 
reached the barn where preparations were made 
for the work. Shovels, picks, and a scraper were 
thrown into the wagon. While the team was be- 
ing hitched the farmer talked unceasingly about 
his toad-hatchery. Occasionally he was inter- 
rupted by Lindon, the colored workman, who in- 
sisted that hawks, jay-birds, and toads were the 
greatest pests of the farm. When the prepara- 
tions were completed, Hunter and the negro went 


Another Surprise for the Boys 185 

off to one of the fields to plow, while the farmer 
with Leo and Raymond started to work on the 
pond. 

Driving along the edge of the peach orchard, 
where- the odorous blossoms hung in rich pro- 
fusion, the farmer explained that the critical time 
for the crop had passed. As the weather was 
warm, and there did not seem any further dan- 
ger, he concluded that his long preparation to 
save the buds from frost would not again be 
needed. 

On leaving the orchard the farmer and the 
two boys came to a gully at the end of a field. 
Here Mr. Bell had decided to make a dam and 
form a miniature pond. Probably it would dry 
up in the warm summer months, still the frog 
eggs would be hatched out by that time and the 
frogs doing valuable service in the fields in the 
extirpation of insects. 

The lower part of the gully being filled with 
brush, the scraper was put to work to make the 
dam. All during the morning did Mr. Bell in- 
terest the boys with wonderful facts about toads. 
Often had the boys kicked an ugly toad from the 


1 86 Another Surprise for the Boys 

road or a path, little dreaming at the time they 
would one day value frogs as a useful help on 
the farm. 

After lunch the farmer drew a small Govern- 
ment publication from his pocket and read the 
following facts: 

“It is estimated that an average toad is worth 
to the farmer five dollars for the cut worm alone 
which it destroys. But this is only one item. The 
amount a toad will eat is astonishing. A large 
specimen has been known to devour fifty rose 
beetles at a single meal. In the stomach of one 
toad seventy-five myriopods — the common house- 
hold centipede — were found ; in another fifty 
army worms ; and yet in another seven ty- 
five gypsy-moth caterpillars. Another frog 
lunched upon thirty-seven ants, nineteen sow- 
bugs, three spiders, one caterpillar, and ten 
plant lice. One toad was seen to eat thirty- 
five large and full-grown celery worms in three 
hours.” 

“How much do you think that the farmers in 
all the country lose every year from the damage 
of insects?” asked the farmer of the boys as he 


Another Surprise for the Boys 187 

looked up from the little pamphlet from which 
he had been reading. 

“Ten thousand dollars/’ snapped Leo rapidly. 

“Ten million/’ put in the boy from Chicago, 
although he thought that he was probably stretch' 
ing the numbers. 

“Both are far from the amount.” 

“Leo is not big enough,” affirmed Ray- 
mond. 

“And you are too big,” replied Leo. 

“No he is not,” said the father. “I’ll give each 
of you another guess.” 

“Twenty million,” said Raymond. 

“Fifty million,” cried Leo, — “no, forty mil- 
lion — I say forty million.” 

“Double the number,” said the father. 

“Eighty million !” cried both boys in astonish- 
ment. 

“Far more than eighty millions. Ten times 
eighty millions. Just think of it, boys; just think 
of the farmers losing eight hundred million dol- 
lars every year on account of insects. Those are 
the figures given out by the Government ; and my 
experience for the past few years has led me 


1 88 Another Surprise for the Boys 

to trust the statement made by the Agricultural 
Department.” 

“Eight hundred million!” the boys repeated 
in unison. 

“Yes, boys, and the latest announcement is that 
the frog will be one of the best protections.” 

“Better than hawks?” Leo wanted to know. 

“Yes, the hawk is limited in his work. And 
then he takes an occasional chicken for pay ; but 
the frog eats only insects that are harmful. That 
is, generally; for he destroys some ants which 
are beneficial. I don’t think that the Government 
has found out all about his habits. But this much 
is true — a frog is worth money to the farmer.” 

“What are we building the pond for?” asked 
Leo, who was getting very interested in such 
matters. 

“It is a hatchery. Frogs lay their eggs in 
ponds; there the young tadpoles grow, and the 
frogs stay until they are able to take care of 
themselves.” 

Towards evening the colored man, Bob Lin- 
don, came by the pond, and on being told of its 
use rolled upon the ground convulsed with laugh- 


Another Surprise for the Boys 189 

ter. “Mistah Bell, youse sartanly am crazy. Dar 
ain’t no other wurd foh dat kind 11b buzzness. 
Why dem ugly toads am de liddlest debbles I’se 
ebber seed. Dar ain’t no other wurd foh dem 
toads — deys am sartanly debbles. An’ now youse 
goes and makes a home foh dem liddle 
debbles.” 

The negro refused to listen to any argument. 
Many of the neighbors, too, thought that Mr. 
Bell was only wasting his time with all these new 
ideas. There was only one way to farm — that 
was to plow a field, plant the seed, and cultivate 
the growing crop. 

However, there were a few converts to Mr. 
Hamilton Bell’s progressive methods of farming, 
and among them his wife, who had for a long 
time sided with her incredulous neighbors. 
Walking out to the pond that day with the 
younger children she was at once questioned by 
Leo about the value of crops destroyed by insects, 
and like the boys fell far below the amount in 
her vague guess. 

“I have heard of nothing but bugs and bugs 
for the last two months/’ she protested mildly, 


190 Another Surprise for the Boys 

“and now I suppose it will be nothing but frogs, 
and frogs, and frogs.” 

“And tadpoles,” put in Raymond. 

“But something to eat, for the present!” cried 
Leo, reaching into a basket which his mother 
carried. All enjoyed the lunch so thoughtfully 
provided, and then resumed work until dark. 

This was not the only occasion on which the 
mother showed her interest in the work. She pre- 
pared for the boys dainty packages for their ex- 
pedition in search of new specimens, and took 
great delight in hearing them rehearse the ad- 
ventures of the day. 

Raymond Bolt was at Leo Bell’s house so 
often that it had become a second home. Father 
Dufrere was very lenient in giving him permis- 
sion to remain over night whenever he wished. 
The priest, too, was more than interested in all the 
schemes and ventures of Mr. Bell and the boys. 

Although Raymond was tired and sleepy when 
he reached the pastor’s residence on this particu- 
lar night he had to tell Father Dufrere about the 
nature of the day’s work. The priest in turn was 
plied with questions in regard to the value of 


Another Surprise for the Boys 19 1 

crops destroyed by insects. When Raymond had 
given his startling figures, the priest smiled and 
took down a book which he had been reading 
that afternoon. “Listen to this,” said he : 

“It costs the American farmer more to feed 
his insects than it does to educate his children. 
The average annual damage done by insects to 
crops in the United States is conservatively esti- 
mated by Walsh and Riley to be $300,000,000, 
or about fifty dollars for each farm. A recent 
estimate by experts puts the yearly loss from the 
forest insect depredations as not less than $100,- 
000,000. The common schools of the country 
in 1902 cost the sum of $235,000,000, and all 
higher education of learning cost less than $50,- 
000,000, making the total cost of education in the 
United States considerably less than the farmer’s 
loss from insect ravages. Thus it would be 
within the statistical truth to say that it costs 
the American farmers more to feed their insect 
foes than it does to educate their children.” 

“So the insects destroy only three hundred 
millions worth of crops each year,” said the priest 
laying aside the book. 


192 Another Surprise for the Boys 

But Raymond still insisted that Mr. Bell had 
given him the figures as eight hundred millions; 
and on the following day he brought the book 
to prove his statement. 

While it could not be settled definitely just 
how much damage the insects did, even the lowest 
and most conservative estimate of three hundred 
million dollars was sufficient to make the study 
of insect life an all-important one for the farmer. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE SCARABAEUS 

/^VF late there was a ripple upon the smooth 
river of life! Aunt Emily was worrying; 
it was not for herself that she was worrying, but 
for the parish priest, good old Father Dufrere. 
Then, the presence of Raymond Bolt had brought 
alternate joy and terror into the heart of the old 
cook. Of late the priest and the boy had been 
conversing in the most mysterious language. 
The rural delivery had brought scores of letters 
and some huge books containing colored pictures 
of every insect that crawled, and of extinct ani- 
mals, which Raymond explained were three times 
as large as an elephant. Old bottles had been 
dug out of the waste heap, washed and labeled; 
the chairs, and table, and mantle, and window- 
sills in the priest’s room were filled with bottles. 
Often the boy and priest went out armed with 
gun and axe. Raymond hinted that some strange 
dangerous animal was roaming the woods. 


193 


194 


The Scarabaeus 


Then one noon young Raymond Bolt came 
bursting into the kitchen and cried aloud in tri- 
umph that he had caught the largest “scara- 
baeus” in the country. Whereupon the old cook 
at once seized the bread-roller to defend herself 
against the awful beast. 

“Good Lawd !” she expostulated, “do shut dat 
doah so hese can’t git in heah !” 

“He is out in the woodshed,” explained the 
boy. 

“Den shut de doah, chile! Shut de doah! 
Caze he might git loose,” and Aunt Emily 
grabbed the iron poker as an additional means 
of defense. With the bread-roller in her hand 
she felt that she could meet any tramp or robber ; 
but this new enemy was so dangerous that the 
iron poker was needed. 

“He can’t get away,” said the boy coolly. 

“How youse knows ? — Shut dat doah ! shut dat 
doah !” 

“Come out and see it!” 

“Git ’way, chile!” 

“Why, I tell you it can’t hurt you, Aunt 
Emily.” 


The Scarahaeus 


195 


“Git 'way ! git 'way !" 

“Father Dufrere says it’s the biggest caught in 
the country in twenty-five years.” 

The cook rushed to the door and bolted it. 
“Lan’ alive!” she stammered. “De biggest in 
de country.” 

“That is what he says — the biggest scarabaeus 
in the land.” 

“I’se don’t knows 'bout youseself, but I’se 
be scar’d,” she replied. 

The boy failed to see the joke. “I'll go and 
find out whether it is safe; when I call you, come 
and look at it,” said he. 

“No, chile!” 

“But it can't hurt you.” 

“It might break loose!” 

“It can’t break loose; we want you to see it 
before we send it away.” 

“Am it dead?” 

“It’s lying on its back kicking.” 

“How youse git it?” 

“Why, it was hard work; but it is safe now, 
and can’t hurt any one.” 

“What do it looks like?” asked the old 


196 


The Scarabaeus 


cook, whose fear was giving away to cur- 
iosity. 

“Well, it has awful claws.” 

Aunt Emily shrank back from the door for 
fear that the animal might thrust a monstrous 
claw into the kitchen. 

“Well, I am going out to the shed and if the 
scarabaeus is dead I will call.” 

The cook ventured near the door, but all the 
time grasped the knob, ready to exclude the ani- 
mal in case it rushed from the shed. 

“It is dead ! Dead as a door nail !” cried the 
boy. 

“Youse jes’ foolin’.” 

“No! no! Come on!” 

The old negress ventured out on the steps. 

“It is just moving one leg a little.” 

“Dar ! I’se know’d youse foolin’,” and the old 
negress retreated to the kitchen, where she stood 
for some time with both the bread-roller and the 
poker in her hands. 

After some minutes the boy returned with the 
assurance that the animal no longer moved a leg 
or showed any signs of life. He explained the 


The Scarabaeus 


19 7 


large horns of the captured monster, and its huge 
wings which enabled it to soar aloft. The old 
negress was mystified, and finally consented to 
venture forth again. With beating heart, with 
hands firmly grasping her weapons, step by step 
Aunt Emily approached the woodshed. 

“I don’t b’leve youse got nuffin’ in dat shed,” 
she finally argued as she came close to the door. 

“Just come and see for yourself — the most 
wonderful scarabaeus ever captured in Kentucky.” 

“An* am it dead?” 

“Can’t move a leg, or wink an eye.” 

“I’se knows youse foolin’,” said the old cook, 
as she timidly peeped into the shed and saw noth- 
ing but a heap of stove-wood. 

“Don’t you see it?” asked the boy. 

“See nuffin’ ; youse don’t see nuffin’ !” 

“Right there on that scantling.” 

But nothing could persuade the cook to con- 
tinue her investigations. As she turned from the 
shed Raymond seized a bottle and following her 
cried: “Look at this, it is in this bottle! A big 
one, too ! The biggest scarabaeus ever caught in 
Kentucky.” 


198 


The Scarabaeus 


“Chile! Chile! Youse am crazy! What am 
youse doin , wid dat old tumble-bug.” The old 
negress dropped her weapons, and with her arms 
a-kimbo shook with laughter. 

“The books don’t call it a tumble-bug, Aunt 
Emily.” 

“Well, it am a tumble-bug. An’ de way youse 
scar’d dis heah nigger wid youse big wurds, an 
de way youse let on — I ’clar for goodness, I’se 
says he am got a big animul ub some sort. What 
am youse gwine foh ter do with dat tumble-bug?” 
she asked. 

“Why, we are making a collection of beetles 
to send away.” 

“I’se don’t car nuffin’ ’bout youse an’ all de bugs 
in de State; but what de good Fodder Dufrere 
got ter do wid bugs? Dat’s what I’se can’t see!” 

“These bugs are going to bring at least a hun- 
dred dollars,” affirmed the boy. 

“Youse ain’t got moah sense den dat tumble- 
bug. No youse ain’t — sayin’ such foolish t’ings 
’round heah. No youse ain’t — youse ain’t got 
moah sense dan a tumble-bug. Don’t you bring 
no moah ub dem bugs ’round heah.” And pick- 


The Scarabaeus 


199 

in g up her weapons the old cook hobbled off to- 
ward the house. “I’se jes’ gwine foh ter ax Fod- 
der ’bout dis bug buzzness.” 

The boy was puzzled about the effects of his 
joke. At first the cook seemed angry; then she 
had evidently enjoyed the deception. What would 
be the outcome? He had only to wait until sup- 
per-time, and if the bountiful supply of warm 
waffles was missing it would be a sure sign that 
the cook was angry. 


CHAPTER XIX 


TAKING REVENGE 

jD OB LINDON and Aunt Emily were talking 
in monosyllables and snatches of sentences. 
Every word was followed by a loud guffaw. Bob 
held a jack-o’-lantern on his knees. What an 
ugly monster it was, with great eyes and ragged 
teeth! Aunt Emily gesticulated with a broom. 

Aunt Emily had fully recovered from the ef- 
fects of the fright produced by the dreaded 
scarabaeus, and was happy in anticipation of 
what seemed to be a better joke on Raymond. 

“Won’t dey run!” said Bob holding aloft the 
jack-o’-lantern. 

“Won’t dey yell! Ya! ha! ha!” babbled the 
old negress. 

“Up de hill! Ya! ha! ha!” 

“Ober fence! Ya!ha!ha!” 

“Scared ter deaf! Ha! ha!” 

“Failin’ ober brush! Ha! ha!” 

“As if de debble wuz after ’em! Ha! ha!” 


200 


201 


Taking Revenge 

“An’ won't stop, till dey’s git clean to der 
house ! Ha ! ha ! ha !” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” went one. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” answered the other. 

“But dar dey comes,” were the warning words 
of the old cook. 

As quick as a bird Bob Lindon flew over the 
field toward the river. 

The boys were on their way toward a cave to 
search for an eyeless beetle. The famous Mam- 
moth Cave of Kentucky was known to have 
these insects ; and in the river which ran through 
it were eyeless fish. Perhaps there were eyeless 
beetles in this cave near the Beechfork. While 
not comparing in length to the Mammoth Cave 
this one was by no means small. It had been 
explored for more than half a mile. Indians 
were supposed to have lived there in early days, 
and more than once it was associated with the 
daring exploits of robbers. At least there was 
enough of the mysterious connected with its his- 
tory to make a young explorer feel the 
“creeps” come over him as he entered its dark 


recesses. 


202 


Taking Revenge 

Our two young naturalists were quite excited 
over their coming exploration; for Bob Lindon, 
as a prelude to his joke, had told them wonderful 
things about the cave — of strange things that 
lived in it, and death-like voices that came from 
its caverns. Although they knew that he was 
exaggerating, still their imaginations were 
aroused and they came prepared to meet an 
enemy. 

“Mornin’, boys,” said Aunt Emily, blandly, 
as they came by the kitchen door, “whar’s youse 
goin’ ?” 

“We are goin’ to the cave.” 

“Ain’t youse ’fraid ub goblins?” 

“No,” said Raymond. 

“Besides,” added Leo, “we have our guns.” 

The old negress was just a little alarmed at 
this information. Still she managed to conceal 
her fear. “Dar ain’t no use takin’ no guns, caze 
if dar am anything, it am a ghost; and youse 
can’t shoot no ghosts.” 

“This shell is loaded with buck-shot,” replied 
Leo taking one from his pocket. “I’d like to see 
the ghost it couldn’t kill.” 


Taking Revenge 


203 


This was serious indeed. “Won’t youse take 
some nice butta-milk an’ pie?” Now something 
had to be done and Aunt Emily was fighting for 
time to think. 

The boys were easily persuaded to partake of 
the refreshments; besides, the pies that Aunt 
Emily baked were second only to her waffles. 

“Dem guns ’ll be heavy,” she argued. 

“Not very,” said Raymond innocently, as he 
received a large piece of the pie. 

“Youse can’t see ter shoot,” said the cook. 

“Even if we hear a noise we are going to bang 
away in that direction.” 

Raymond put special emphasis on the word 
“b-a-n-g,” so that Aunt Emily was startled, and 
spilled some of the precious buttermilk. 

“Dar ain’t no use b-a-n-g-i-n’ at nuffin’,” she 
objected, drawing out the word with a like em- 
phasis. 

“I reckon we’ll frighten the ghosts away,” 
claimed Leo. 

“Why dar ain’t no ghosts dar,” pleaded the 
negress; “dem guns ’ll git awful wet, caze it’s 
damp in de cave.” 


204 Taking Revenge 

“ Suppose we leave them?” said the unsus- 
picious Leo. 

“Kose, dar ain’t no use ub ’em.” 

But Raymond had never been in a cave; and 
while he did not credit the wonderful stories 
which Lindon had rehearsed for him, he felt safer 
with a gun in his hands. “Well, I’ll take my 
gun,” he added; “perhaps one will do.” 

“Dar! Youse a cowa’d,” argued the old ne- 
gress, who felt that she was winning her point. 

“No, I ain’t a coward!” and the city lad re- 
sented the imputation. “To show you that I’m 
not afraid, I’ll leave my gun, too.” 

“Dat’s right; jes’ finish dat pie an’ milk. Dar 
ain’t no use foh ter take de guns. An’ what in 
de name ub de Lo’d am youse boys goin’ foh ter 
fin’ in de cave?” Aunt Emily was happy now, 
as she had averted the danger of having Lindon 
and his lantern torn to pieces with cruel buck- 
shot. 

“We are looking for eyeless beetles. There is 
a fifty-dollar reward for any one who sends in 
a new variety of beetle to the Government sta- 
tion,” explained Raymond. 


205 


Taking Revenge 

“Bugs ! bugs ! bugs !” she repeated. “I’se neb- 
ber seed de like. But I’se reckon dar ain’t no use 
ub mise sayin’ nuffin. Ise’ll jes’ keep de guns 
while youse am a lookin’ foh de bugs what ain’t 
got no eyes.” With these words she took 
up the guns, which were leaning against the 
table. 

“Wait there, Aunt Emily,” said Leo, “I think 
that we had better take them, for we are looking 
for blue- jays, also, and we might meet a couple 
in the woods.” 

“That’s a fact,” put in Raymond, “and if we 
kill six jays to-day, we’ll have all Saturday to 
fish.” 

While the old negress was indignant at this 
sudden change of plans, the mention of jay-birds 
gave her a suggestion. If she could only delay 
the boys in their search for birds she might slip 
away to the cave and warn Lindon of the danger. 
“Jes’ come right out heah in de orchard,” she 
explained, “dar has been lots ob jay-birds out dar 
all de mo’nin’.” 

“We’ll look for them after we get back,” re- 
plied Raymond. 


206 


Taking Revenge 


“Yes,” chimed in Leo, “the first thing that we 
want is the fifty dollars.” 

The old negress had no further plans to delay 
their progress. Would she tell them of the trick 
and warn them not to shoot at the jack-o’-lan- 
tern? Perhaps Lindon would hide in some part 
of the cave at a little distance from the lantern. 
Why did they not think of this part of the 
scheme? But it was too late now, and the boys 
were on the way to the cave to murder him. 

Luckily they had followed the road through 
the sugar-camp to the river. There was a shorter 
way over the hills; but the descent to the bank 
near the cave was very steep. Still there was 
question of life and death, and Bob Lindon had 
to be told of the threatened danger. 

Bob was not the bravest of mortals. While 
delighting in ghost stories he was frequently 
frightened by the owls in the woods and rats in 
the dark barn-loft. He slackened his pace as he 
went through the woods toward the cave carrying 
the jack-o’-lantern. In fact he almost wished that 
the boys would overtake him and give him an 
excuse for not carrying out his trick. The closer 



A hundred demons seemed howling within the dark recess. 

Page 207 































































































. 













































Taking Revenge 


207 

he got to the cave the more his imagination be- 
came excited; and when he reached it he imag- 
ined that he heard a noise within. 

Aunt Emily had in fact come to the cave before 
Lindon had arrived. Squeezing through the nar- 
row entrance she was lost in utter darkness. On 
calling aloud for Bob she heard ghost-like echoes 
roll and roll through the vaults overhead. She 
stumbled and fell and on arising could not find 
the outlet. 

It was just at this time that Bob came. He 
heard strange cries and groans from within. He 
dropped the jack-o’-lantern. He listened. What 
death-like noises. A hundred demons seemed 
howling within the dark recess. Bob turned and 
fled. 

A short distance down the river bank he met 
the boys, stopped just long enough to inform them 
that the cave was full of robbers and devils, then 
on he went. The two lads did not wait for con- 
sultation. Seized with a sudden panic they, too, 
fled through the sugar-camp toward the priest’s 
residence. 

On reaching the kitchen at the same time as 


208 


Taking Revenge 


the negro, the boys insisted on bolting the door 
to prevent the supposed robbers from following 
them. After waiting for some minutes they be- 
gan to ask about Aunt Emily. Then Bob Lin- 
don confessed that he had gone to the cave with 
the intention of frightening the lads; and the 
boys understood why it was that the old cook did 
not want them to take their guns. Finally Bob 
was sure that it was Aunt Emily’s voice that he 
had heard in the cave; so they decided to go to 
her rescue at once. 


CHAPTER XX 


RESCUE AND DISCOVERIES 

N returning to the cave Bob and the 
two boys found Aunt Emily praying and 
waiting for the day of judgment. She had yelled 
for help until exhausted, and then, being unable 
to find the outlet, had resigned herself to fate. 

She was led to the entrance and, beholding the 
bright sun, she threw herself upon her knees and 
returned thanks to God for the rescue. Then 
she hobbled away, too angry to speak to any of 
the party, even if she did owe to them her life 
and liberty. 

Into the cave the boys went and with them 
Bob Lindon. For some time they were unsuc- 
cessful in finding any form of insect life, until 
finally Leo, with the aid of his lantern, picked up 
what seemed to be a soft, clayish stone, to which 
several bugs clung tenaciously. “Here are the 
blind beetles/’ he cried. 

Raymond kicked aside several of the brown- 
209 


210 


Resctie and Discoveries 


ish stones, and found a whole colony of the in- 
sects. A short search showed that the beetles 
were not only under the stones, but that they 
were actually gnawing into the sides of the soft 
rock. 

“This isn’t stone or rock,” exclaimed Leo in 
utter bewilderment, “it is maple-sugar.” 

Raymond put a piece into his mouth, even if 
bugs had been sticking to it. “Maple-sugar ! 
Where did it come from?” he cried. 

“A bar’l full ub de stuff,” stammered Bob Lin- 
don. 

“And just the size of Father Dufrere’s molds,” 
put in Leo scarcely able to speak from excitement. 

“We have found the sugar stolen by the Ap- 
plegates,” exclaimed Raymond with a shout. 

There was no doubt about the matter. Right 
before them was the sugar that had been missed 
from the shed at the rear of the priest’s residence. 
Not all of it, however; for this amount, 
evidently spoiled by the dampness, had been 
covered with mold, and finally abandoned. A 
further search revealed the fact that the cave had 
been inhabited for a considerable time. This was 


Rescue and Discoveries 21 1 

evident from the amount of wood burned by the 
occupants. 

While the maple-sugar was too much damaged 
to be used, it nevertheless was the means of dis- 
covering an insect which represented real value; 
for this small black beetle was without eyes and 
was unlike those found in the famous Mammoth 
Cave. 

“This is a new kind of beetle,” claimed Leo, 
holding the bug close to his lantern. 

“Then, that means fifty dollars for us,” as- 
serted Raymond, picking up a large cake of the 
sweet substance, with a whole family of the in- 
sects clinging to it. 

“Youse boys is crazy,” said Bob Lindon. “Dey 
ain’t wuth nuffin’ ’cept ter eat up de good sugar. 
Dey ain’t goin’ foh ter gib youse no fifty dollars 
foh de bugs.” 

The boys could not convince the negro of the 
importance of the discovery. 

It was not long before the party was back at 
the priest’s house where Father Dufrere learned 
of the adventure and the discoveries. 

As the printed instructions of the Agricultural 


212 


Rescue and Discoveries 


Department gave the discoverer the right to 
name a new variety of insect, the lads had de- 
cided to call the blind beetle after the old ne- 
gress. Now they wanted to find out the Latin 
word for “Emily.” 

Good Father Dufrere was only too delighted 
to take down his dusty dictionary. After some 
little consultation he informed the boys that 
Emily was a Greek word, and that the insects 
would properly be called Aemilia Anophthalma, 
which was only another way of saying blind 
Emily. The learned term was copied and sent 
with specimens to the Government officials, with 
an account of the cave. 

Not only did the boys receive the fifty-dollar 
prize, but the Louisville Sunday paper gave an 
account of the discovery and pointed out what 
intelligent work could be done fo preserve the 
crops and keep down the insects. The paper gave 
statistics to show that millions of dollars were 
lost each year to the farmers, and suggested that 
the younger members of a family could make 
themselves useful in eradicating pests. 

The entire neighborhood now became inter- 


Rescue and Discoveries 


213 


ested in the matter. Mr. Bell’s house was be- 
sieged by inquisitive visitors and the rural mail 
was filled with packages from the Government 
station. There was a concerted effort made to 
kill off the plum-weevil which was so destructive 
to fruit. From farm to farm Mr. Bell went ex- 
plaining the new method of capturing the fully 
developed beetles and preventing the larva from 
reaching maturity. It was only by concerted ac- 
tion that the district could hope to be freed from 
this pest. 

All spring and summer had the boys been 
working. For the last few weeks they had col- 
lected a variety of water-beetles, whose sleek 
black and brown wings added much to the col- 
lection. 

Practice had made Mr. Hamilton Bell an ex- 
pert entomologist. He received numerous letters 
of congratulation from the Government station 
in Frankford and from Mr. Dolle in Belgium. 
This gentleman had been favored with a 
complete collection of specimens. He wrote one 
day expressing his surprise that a certain black 
beetle about two inches in length had been sent 


214 Rescue and Discoveries 

to him. According to him this beetle was of an 
European species, and had not been found in the 
western hemisphere. The letter led to an inquiry 
which showed that the beetle in question had ap- 
peared in the eastern part of the country, having 
evidently been imported. But as Mr. Bell and 
the bovs were the first to find the specimen west 
of the Allegheny Mountains they received another 
prize of fifty dollars. 

Still other letters came from the Government 
station giving greater satisfaction and announc- 
ing greater premiums. The result of the work of 
Mr. Bell and the boys proved beyond a doubt that 
the jay-bird was a friend of the farmer. So 
many specimens had been collected during the 
four months, and such exact examinations had 
been made and reports sent in, that the officials 
had no further doubt about the utility of this 
noisy bird. The official letter contained a check 
for three hundred dollars from the Government. 

Of course the boys were curious to know how 
much they were to share in the four hundred dol- 
lars received for the combined labor. While 
they realized the father had done the scientific 


Rescue and Discoveries 


215 


work they felt that their faithfulness had enabled 
him to win the prize. Mr. Bell would not give 
an answer about the division of the money, but 
assured the boys that they would be satisfied with 
their part. 

When Bob Lindon heard that jay-birds had 
been declared friends of the farmers, and that a 
law would probably be passed against killing or 
even wounding one, he declared that he for one 
would not abide by any such decision. Jay-birds 
had always been noisy, useless, and sassy birds, 
yes, sassy; there was no other word that fitted 
the jay as well as “sassy.” 

“Mistah Bell,” asked Bob one day, “kin birds 
read ?” 

“No; why do you ask that question?” 

“Kin jay-birds read?” 

“No, Bob.” 

“Well, Mistah Bell, I’se b’leve dat jay-birds 
kin read.” 

“How did you come to that conclusion?” 

“Dar ain’t no ’elusion ’bout it; but dem jay- 
birds seed dat lettah what youse got an’ said dey 
mus’n’t be shot.” 


2 16 


Rescue and Discoveries 


“How do you know ?” 

“Why, it’s jes’ dis way, Mistah Bell. Ebber 
since youse got dat lettah dem jay-birds is bin 
awfully sassy; an’ dey’s jes’ gittin’ sassier ebbry 
day. Dey jes’ git up in dem trees, an’ dar dey 
set; and I’se heerd ’em sayin’ ‘dar’s dot old black 
Bob an’ hese can’t hurt us no moah.’ An’ dey’s 
jes’ gittin’ thick roun’ heah as blackberries. I’se 
don’t like it, Mistah Bell, no I’se don’t. I’se don’t 
like dem birds bein’ sassy, and makin’ fun ub 
me.” 

The farmer could only laugh at Bob, who, 
however, was serious, very serious about the mat- 
ter. 

“Why, Bob,” said he, “we read the letter one 
night after supper after the birds were all asleep. 
Since then, I have had the letter in my pocket. 
So you see that the birds couldn’t get the 
letter.” 

Bob, who was cutting wood, stood with the 
axe in his hand for some seconds. “Mistah Bell,” 

ft' 

said he, “heah am anudder question. Kin jay- 
birds talk? Does jay-birds know when udders 
talks ’bout ’em? Dat what I’se wants foh ter 


Rescue and Discoveries 


2iy 

know. Do dey know when udder peoples talks 
’bout ’em?” 

“I can’t say; I never talked to one.” 

“Well, dey kin. Mistah Bell, Fse knows dey 
kin ; dem birds is gone and heerd us talkin’. I’se 
knows dey has. An’ dey knows dat dey won’t 
be shot; dey know it, jes’ as well as Fse knows it. 
Dey know it, an’ dat’s why dey’s so sassy.” 

“You are mistaken, Bob.” 

“Mistah Bell, dem birds know it. Suah as my 
name’s Bob Lindon, dey’s know it! Suah dey 
do ! Dey know dey won’t be kill’d. Now, Mis- 
tah Bell, Fse gwine foh ter fool ’em.” 

“How is that?” 

“It am jes’ dis way. When Fse heahs dem 
sassy birds a talkin’ sassy ober hed, an’ a laffin’, 
Fse gwine foh ter say: ‘Wese gwine foh ter 
kill all de jay-birds ! Wese gwine foh ter kill all 
de jay-birds!’ Den dem birds, dey’ll git scar’d 
an’ move.” 

Bob was true to his threat, and for months 
when he heard a jay-bird overhead he would sing 
out: “Wese gwine foh ter kill all de jays! Wese 
gwine foh ter kill all de jays.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


MR. BELL'S PREDICTION 
HERE was great joy in the Landford family. 



A Mr. Landford had three of the largest 
farm-wagons filled with baskets of peaches. Mrs. 
Landford talked and talked, but she was busy 
directing the children and the neighbors who had 
come in to work at the peach crop. The little 
Landfords worked as they had never worked be- 
fore, wrapping peaches in paper and putting 
them gently into baskets. Happy indeed were 
the little Landfords, for they had learned by ex- 
perience that there was connection between suc- 
cessful crops and the visits of old Santa Claus. 
Of course it was a long time before he would 
come; still the little Landfords were counting on 
generous gifts at Christmas, for the farm prod- 
ucts had beaten all records, and the peach crop 
would add hundreds of dollars to the family bank 
account. 

In the midst of the general work and rejoic- 


Mr. Bell's Prediction 


219 


ing was heard the high rasping voice of Samuel 
Tutt. “Right smart crop of peaches/’ he shouted 
across the rail fence where he had stopped his 
horse. 

“I reckon we don’t owe it to you,” retorted 
Landford, scarcely pausing in his work to notice 
the visitor. 

Farmer Tutt did not catch the words. “I 
reckon old Hamilton Bell is taking all the credit 
to himself,” said he. 

“Come right in here. I want to give you some 
peaches, and then we’ll talk about Hamilton 
Bell.” There was nothing in the tone to betray 
the anger of Landford. 

The two men walked over to a tree toward 
the end of the orchard. “I want to pay you for 
the advice you gave me some months ago,” ex- 
plained the owner. 

“I didn’t expect no pay.” 

“I want to give you half the peaches on a tree 
over here.” 

“Kind of you; can I bring over a wagon to 
take ’em home?” 

“Let us look at the tree first.” It was with 


220 


Mr. Bell's Prediction 


difficulty that Landford could control his anger. 
“Now you can have all the peaches on that side 
of the tree,” and the farmer indicated the line of 
division. 

It was a large, shapely tree that Tutt examined. 
One side was all but breaking with its precious 
load, while the other did not bear a peach. “Why 
you have gathered all on my side,” whined 
Tutt. 

“No, sir, we didn’t gather a peach there.” 

“Then I reckon there wasn’t none to gather.” 

“Exactly.” 

“But you was going to give me some.” 

“All that was coming to you for your advice.” 
And now Landford could no longer conceal his 
anger. “You came around with your ignorant 
talk and advised me to stop lighting those char- 
coal burners, and I was fool enough to listen to 
you. Your advice cost me over two hundred dol- 
lars. One side of that tree which was heated 
by the burners escaped the frost and bore the 
crop you see; the other side was nipped by the 
frost. And look at that tree, and that tree, and 
that tree,” continued the irate farmer pointing 


Mr. Bell’s Prediction 


221 


down the row. “I owe it to your advice that 
those trees are not full of peaches. ,, 

Tutt trembled as he listened to the words. 
“We ain’t going to fight about it,” he stammered. 

“No! No! I had one fight over this matter, 
and if I had another you would never leave this 
orchard. But I simply want to say this much: 
In future, tend to your own business, and if I 
want to know anything about peach orchards I’ll 
go to Hamilton Bell and not to an ignorant man.” 

“I didn’t mean harm,” mumbled the visitor. 

“No! No! but your advice cost me lots of 
money.” Farmer Landford turned his back and 
walked away from the man whom he pitied. 

About two weeks after this incident Mr. Tutt 
appeared one afternoon in front of the residence 
of Clay Wurl, the County Game Warden. “Bad 
things happening down our way,” he began, on 
meeting the Warden on the porch. 

“Who’s in trouble now?” asked Mr. Wurl. 

“A neighbor of mine,” whined Tutt. 

“Shooting quail in summer-time! I suppose.” 

“No, I reckon not; but it’s just as bad. He 
is building a fish-trap.” 


222 


Mr. Bell's Prediction 


“Don’t he know that he’ll be caught?” 

“I reckon not.” 

“Who is it?” 

“Well, I don’t like to give names ; but you just 
come along, and I’ll point out the place, and leave 
the rest to you.” 

In a few minutes the two men were riding 
toward the Beechfork. As they came out of a 
wood and approached the river, Tutt pointed to 
the stream, where four persons were at work 
building a dam. 

“I’ll stay here in the woods,” said Tutt, “and 
you go down and see what them people are do- 

• „ t> 

m g. 

“Building a dam here ?” asked the warden rid- 
ing up to the shore. 

The party at work was no other than Mr. 
Bell and the boys. Raymond Bolt, who had been 
following a series of comic pictures entitled 
“Foolish Questions,” blurted out: “No, we are 
up in the moon picking blackberries.” 

“I’ll take care of you later,” growled the man. 
Then turning to Mr. Bell he continued, “I am 
surprised, sir, to find you making a fish-trap in 


Mr. Bell's Prediction 


223 


the river. And you know it is against the law.” 

“It does look something like a fish-trap,” ac- 
knowledged Mr. Bell, as he glanced at the work. 

“Looks like it! What else can it be?” 

The boys wanted to laugh, but were too fright- 
ened after Raymond’s experience. 

“It might be many things,” replied Mr. Bell; 
“but it is really intended for a weir-dam.” 

“And the trap will come next,” added the offi- 
cer. 

“No ! The concrete dam will come next — then 
the turbine wheel — and after that a great many 
things will come, so we hope.” 

“I am not in the humor for talking,” said the 
surprised Warden. “I do not wish to become an 
enemy of any of my neighbors; but I’ll have to 
summon you before the next grand jury to an- 
swer for building what seemed to me to be a fish- 
trap in the Beechfork. I hope that you will be 
able to give a satisfactory explanation.” The 
official turned and was about to mount when the 
farmer recalled him. 

“I think it is easier to give an explanation here 
while we have witnesses,” he said. “In fact, Mr. 


224 


Mr. Bell's Prediction 


Wurl, we are contemplating erecting a concrete 
dam here if we find that we have sufficient water 
to turn a turbine-wheel and run a dynamo.” 

“And it will cut hay for the stock/’ put in 
Hunter, who was looking forward to the time 
when he would escape this work. 

“And it will milk the cows and churn the but- 
ter,” chimed in Leo, for that was his task. 

“And it will iron the clothes,” piped the high 
voice of a little girl who up to this time was sit- 
ting unnoticed on the bank. 

The Warden looked from one to another un- 
til finally his eyes were fixed on Raymond, who 
was recovering from his fright. “And I reckon 
this thing will help you to pick those blackberries 
in the moon,” said he. Then there was a gen- 
eral laugh, followed by a satisfactory explanation 
of the originator. 

Hamilton Bell pointed out to the Warden that 
he and the boys had taken occasion of the low 
current to construct a weir-dam, the object of 
which was to determine the flow of water. The 
farmer knew his story well and talked right on 
without an interruption. With sufficient water 


Mr. Bell's Prediction 


225 


to turn a wheel and run a dynamo the whole farm 
would be transformed into an earthly paradise 
where there would be but little work. The elec- 
tricity would heat the house and do the cooking, 
pump water for the house and stock, cut fodder 
and saw wood, milk the cows, and churn the 
butter. In fact the farmer would have but one 
task, namely, to walk around the house, or the 
barn, or the farm to turn on the electric current, 
which would be ever ready for all kinds of ser- 
vice. 

Before the Warden left the river he had ar- 
ranged to have Mr. Bell call at his home and give 
estimates for a concrete dam near his house. On 
reaching the woods Mr. Wurl could not find his 
companion, for Samuel Tutt.had caught enough 
of the conversation to find out his mistake and 
had consequently ridden away in haste. 

At present Hamilton Bell is hauling the sand 
and cement for the concrete dam. He predicts 
that in a few years there will be hundreds of these 
dams along the small and large rivers of Ken- 
tucky and that every farmhouse in the State will 
be lighted by electricity. 


CHAPTER XXII 


NAMES IN LETTERS OF GOLD 

y^LTHOUGH it was but the first week of 
September, there was a touch of Autumn in 
the air and a tint of Autumn in the woods and 
fields. Only a close observer of nature would 
have noticed the duller green of the oak and hick- 
ory, or the faint yellow bands at the extremities 
of the maple leaves. Elderberries hung in pur- 
ple clusters along the fence rows, and sumac 
bushes burned red among patches of cedar and 
sassafras. The corn tops, now dry and rustling, 
the great straw-stack settled and discolored 
after the thrashing time, the hayricks filled 
with clover and alfalfa, the peach orchards 
burned and neglected — these were but a few 
of the many indications of approaching 
fall. 

In front of his little church good Father Du- 
frere was walking up and down thinking of the 
events of the past five months, thinking of the 
226 


Names in Letters of Gold 227 

events of the past fifty years. The last five 
months had been eventful in the life of the parish. 
Father Dufrere was wondering, too, wondering 
how it had all come to pass. Not only had the 
beautiful vestments been paid for, not only had 
the church been frescoed ; but new windows had 
replaced the old ones, and the altar had been 
painted and gilded. Then the bishop and several 
of the clergy had come to congratulate him on 
the fiftieth anniversary of his priesthood. There 
had been a Solemn High Mass and sermon; and 
all had praised the church, and the vestments, and 
the pastor. The congregation was proud of its 
achievements, proud of the pastor, proud of the 
church. 

It was all over now. The bishop was gone, 
the priests were gone, the people were gone; and 
so the priest was thinking it all over — thinking 
of the events of the day, thinking of the events 
of the past five months, thinking of the events of 
the past fifty years. The galloping of horses 
along the pike in front of the church disturbed his 
meditations. 

“Good evening, Father,” the two boys, Leo 


228 Names in Letters of Gold 

and Raymond, spoke in unison as they rode up 
to the gate and touched their hats. 

“We have come to pay for our windows,” con- 
tinued Leo before the pastor could reply to the 
salutations. 

“Here is my check,” said Raymond, with the 
dignity of a bank president. 

“And here is mine,” and Leo placed his con- 
tribution in the hand of the priest. 

“God bless you, boys,” replied the old pastor 
with a voice full of emotion. “And how much 
have you got for yourselves?” he asked. 

“Father gave us fifty dollars each,” answered 
Leo. 

“But we can’t spend it foolishly,” added Ray- 
mond. 

“So you made four hundred dollars in cash by 
working for the Government,” were the words 
of the old man. 

“Yes,” explained Raymond, “fifty for the new 
beetle, fifty for the blind beetle, and three hun- 
dred for the work on the jay-birds.” 

“Some people won’t thank you for saving jay- 
birds,” argued Father Dufrere. 


22 9 


Names in Letters of Gold 

“Bob Lindon isn’t thanking us now; he says 
that he’s going to shoot every jay-bird on the 
farm.” 

“And he believes that the jay -birds heard about 
the matter, and know that they are safe,” put in 
Raymond. “He believes, too, that he can frighten 
them by yelling at ’em, and telling them that he 
is going to shoot them all.” 

“Just think of it,” muttered the priest in a low 
voice. “Just think of jay-birds putting two new 
windows in the church.” 

“We ain’t jay-birds,” objected Leo; “and we 
put in the two windows.” 

“And Mr. Bell isn’t a jay-bird, and he helped 
us,” argued Raymond. 

“And then he made you give the three hun- 
dred dollars to the church.” 

“He didn’t make us,” asserted Raymond. “He 
said it would be an honor to have our names on 
the windows.” 

“Besides,” claimed Leo, “it was only fun to 
get the birds and bugs.” 

“Leo intended to bring the checks over this 
morning when he came to Mass,” said Raymond, 


230 Names in Letters of Gold 

“but he forgot them, so I rode over to meet him. 
Besides, he wanted to get a good look at the 
windows.” 

Into the church the party walked, and after a 
short prayer the two boys stood before their re- 
spective donations. 

Raymond had chosen a design with a picture 
of St. Aloysius, for he remembered the devotion 
of the six Sundays of the Saint which he had 
made when he was in the seventh grade at the 
parochial school. Leo took his own patron saint 
for the figure in his window. We can pardon the 
boys for the honest pride and satisfaction which 
they felt, as they stood before the windows and 
read their names in bright golden colors. 

“There are some things which we have for- 
gotten,” resumed the priest, as the three passed 
out into the yard. 

“What is it?” the boys wanted to know. 

“Why, those who paid for the beautiful vest- 
ments.” 

“Father paid for them,” claimed Leo. 

“No, the man in Europe,” pleaded Raymond. 

“Just as the jay-birds paid for the windows, so 


Names in Letters of Gold 231 

the beetles paid for the vestments/’ contended 
Father Dufrere. 

‘That is true,” acknowledged Raymond. Then 
he cried aloud: “Mr. Tumble-bug did the 
work.” 

“And Mr. Plum-weevil and all the rest of 
them,” shouted Leo. 

“Why should not the birds and insects help 
us,” explained the priest. “Did not God make 
them for our use ? And are they not more beauti- 
ful than anything which man can make? Does 
not Scripture say that Solomon in all his glory 
was not robed like the flowers of the field? No 
man can reproduce the delicate hue of the tiger- 
beetle or the wing of a dragon-fly, or the plu- 
mage of a red bird. And look !” he said pointing 
toward the knobs beyond whose oak-trees the sun 
was dipping. “Can man make anything as glo- 
rious? Can man equal that? Can man make 
anything as glorious?” 

Glorious, indeed, was the scene before them. 
The steep slope of the knobs was one unbroken 
embankment of dark myrtle green. Far beyond 
stretched a sea of crimson clouds. From the steps 


232 Names in Letters of Gold 

of the church the priest and the boys watched the 
luminous painting of the finger of God on the 
canvas of the sky — watched the painting as it 
shifted, as the red and gold commingled, and a 
purple veil was thrown over it — watched it, as the 
knobs and sky seemed blending. 

Unconsciously Raymond had caught Leo’s 
hand and drawn him closer to his side. Neither 
boy spoke ; but the priest could read the thoughts 
of each. 

The boys were about to part. Early on the 
following morning Raymond was to catch the 
local train, which made connection at eight 
o’clock in Louisville with the Chicago express. 
He was to meet his parents there, and go with 
them to a town in Illinois where the family had 
recently moved. 

However, there was a prospect of Raymond’s 
returning to Kentucky, for his father was bid- 
ding for the construction of several concrete dams 
in the Green and Rolling Fork Rivers. The lat- 
ter stream is not far from St. Thomas. Per- 
haps the boy could act in the capacity of time 
keeper or assist his father as bookkeeper. Still 


Names in Letters of Gold 233 

all this was indefinite, and the boys felt the sepa- 
ration keenly. 

Each seemed to have a big lump in his throat 
as he tried to say good-by. In fact, Father Du- 
frere had to pronounce the parting words. 

Soon Leo was galloping down the dusty road 
on his way home; while Raymond went off to 
the barn to put up the pastor’s horse, which he 
had been using that afternoon. 

After some minutes the boy returned to close 
and lock the church, for that of late had been one 
of his tasks. On entering he saw good Father 
Dufrere kneeling on the altar steps in the dim 
glow of the sanctuary lamp. He himself crept 
away toward the altar of Saint Aloysius, and fell 
upon his knees. Here we shall leave them. 

We do not know what career in life Raymond 
Bolt will follow ; but we have faith in his future. 
He will certainly never forget his first experi- 
ence in Kentucky; he will never forget Leo Bell, 
or Aunt Emily, or Bob Lindon ; and above all, he 
will never forget the charity and kindness of 
good old Father Dufrere. 

PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK 



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PICKLE AND PEPPER. By Ella L. Dorsey. “This story 
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AS TRUE AS GOLD. By Mary E. Mannix. “This book will 
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AN HEIR OF DREAMS. By S. M. O’Malley. “The book is 
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THE MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
Sure to stir the blood of every real boy and to delight with 
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TWO LITTLE GIRLS. By Lillian Mack. A real child’s tale. 

R1DINGDALE FLOWER SHOW. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. 
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2 


20 COPYRIGHTED STORIES FOR THE YOUNG 

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HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. Bv Rev. F. J. 
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THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H. S. 
Spalding, S.J. “From the outset the reader’s attention is 
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SAINT CUTHBERT’S. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. “A truly 
inspiring tale, full of excitement.” 

THE TAMING OF POLLY. By Ella Loraine Dorsey. “Polly 
with her cool head, her pure heart and stern Western sense 
of justice.” 

STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. By Mary T. Waggaman. 
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JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. By C. May. “Courage, 
truth, honest dealing with friend and foe.” 

A KLONDIKE PICNIC. By Eleanor C. Donnelly. “Alive 
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A COLLEGE BOY. By Anthony Yorke. “Healthy, full of 
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THE GREAT CAPTAIN. By Katharine T. Hinkson. 
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THE YOUNG COLOR GUARD. By Mary G. Bonesteel. 
“The attractiveness of the tale is enhanced by the realness 
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THE HALDEMAN CHILDREN. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full 
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PAULINE ARCHER. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Sure to cap- 
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THE ARMORER OF SOLINGEN. By W. Herchenbach. 
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THE INUNDATION. By Canon Schmid. “Sure to please 
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THE BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. By Marion A. Tag- 
gart. “Pleasing and captivating to young people.” 

DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. By Clara Mulholland. “Vivacious 
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BISTOURI. By A. Melandri. “How Bistouri traces out the 
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FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. By Sara T. Smith. “The 
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THE SEA-GULL’S ROCK. By J. Sandeau. “The intrepidity 
of the little hero will appeal to every boy.” 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First Series. A collection of 
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8 


20 COPYRIGHTED STORIES FOR THE YOUNG 

BY THE BEST CATHOLIC WRITERS 
Special Net Price, $10.00 
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PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A BOY OF HIM. By Rev. 
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published.” 

THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. By Rev. H. S. Spald- 
ing, S.T. “Father Spalding’s descriptions equal those of 
Cooper.” 

SHADOWS LIFTED. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.T. “We know 
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HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY, AND OTHER 
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stories by one of the most popular writers.” 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. By C. May. “Chap- 
ters of breathless interest.” 

MILLY AVELING. By Sara Trainer Smith. “The best 
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THE TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. By Mary T. Wagga- 
man. “An excellent girl’s story.” 

THE PLAYWATER PLOT. By Mary T. Waggaman. “How 
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AN ADVENTURE 

F ERRY 

PANCHO*AND PANCHIT A. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full of 
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RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. By Mary G. Bonesteel. 
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BY BRANSCOME RIVER. By Marion A. Taggart. “A 
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THE QUEEN’S PAGE. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 
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MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
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BOB-O’LINK. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Every boy and girl 
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THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE. By Marion A. 
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WRONGFULLY ACCUSED. By W. Herchenbach. “A simple 
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THE CANARY BIRD. By Canon Schmid. “The story is a 
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FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By S. H. C. J. “The children who 

TUI IT e if e D T? UC ^ * s ^°r r t es h 2 ve much to be thankful for.” 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second Series. A collection 
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WITH THE APACHES. By Gabriel 


4 


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THE WITCH OF RIDINGDALE. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. 
“Here is a story for boys that bids fair to equal any of 
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THE MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. By George Barton. There 
is a peculiar charm about this novel that the discriminating 
reader will ascribe to the author’s own personality. 

HARMONY FLATS. By C. S. Whitmore. The characters 
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WAYWARD WINIFRED. By Anna T. Sadlier. A story for 
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TOM LOSELY : BOY. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. Illustrated. 
The writer knows boys and boy nature, and small-boy 
nature too. 

MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By S. H. C. J. “The 
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JACK O’LANTERN. By Mary T. Waggaman. This book is 
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THE BERKLEYS. By Emma Howard Wight. A truly in- 
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LITTLE MISSY. By Mary T. Waggaman. A charming story 
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TOM’S LUCK-POT. By Mary T. Waggaman. Full of fun 
and charming incidents — a book that every boy should read. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. By Mary E. Mannix. One of the 
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FOR THE WHITE ROSE. By Katharine T. Hinkson. This 
book is more than a story, and it is well written. 

THE DOLLAR HUNT. From the French by E. G. Martin. 
Those who wish to get a fascinating tale should read this. 

THE VIOLIN MAKER. From the original of Otto v. Schach- 
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“JACK.” By S. H. C. J. As loving and lovable a little fellow 
as there is in the world is “Jack.” 

A SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. By Anna T. Sadlier. This 
is a beautiful book, in full sympathy with and delicately 
expressive of the author’s creations. 

DADDY DAN. By Mary T. Waggaman. A fine boys’ story. 

THE BELL FOUNDRY. By Otto v. Schaching. So interest- 
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TOORALLADDY. By Julia C. Walsh. An exciting story of 
the varied fortunes of an orphan boy from abject poverty 
in a dismal cellar to success. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE, Third Series. A collection of 
twenty stories by the foremost writers. 

5 


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novels 

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LIBRARY OF NOVELS No. I 

THE RULER OF THE KINGDOM. By Grace Keon. “Will 
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KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. By J. Harrison. “A 
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6 


12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors 

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THE SENIOR LIEUTENANT’S WAGER, and Other Stories. 
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THE WAY THAT LED BEYOND. By J. Harrison. “The 
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CORINNE’S VOW. By Mary T. Waggaman. With 16 full- 
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PERE MONNIER’S WARD. By Walter Lecky. “The char- 
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TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
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THE UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE. By Marion A. Tag- 
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THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. By Henry M. Ross. “A well- 
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FABIOLA’S SISTER. (A companion volume to Cardinal 
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THE OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE: A Novel. By A. de La- 
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7 


12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors 

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LIBRARY OF NOVELS No. Ill 

“NOT A JUDGMENT.” By Grace Keon. "Beyond doubt the 
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THE RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. By Anna T. Sadlier. “A 
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HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER. By Katharine Tynan Hink- 
son. “So dramatic and so intensely interesting that the 
reader will find it difficult to tear himself away from the 
story.” 

OUT OF BONDAGE. By M. Holt. "Once his book becomes 
known it will be read by a great many.” 

MARCELLA GRACE. By Rosa Mwlholland. Mr. Gladstone 
called this novel a masterpiece. 

THE CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. By F. v. Brackel. 
This work has achieved a remarkable success for a Catholic 
novel, for in less than a year three editions were printed. 

CARROLL DARE. By Mary T. Waggaman. Illustrated. “A 
thrilling story, with the dash of horses and the clash of 
swords on every side.” 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. By Miles Keon. “Dion is as 
brilliantly, as accurately and as elegantly classical, as 
scholarly in style and diction, as fascinating in plot and as 
vivid in action as Ben Hur.” 

HER BLIND FOLLY. By H. M. Ross. A clever story with 
an interesting and well-managed plot and many striking 
situations. 

MISS ERIN. By M. E. Francis. "A captivating tale of Irish 
life, redolent of genuine Celtic wit, love and pathos.” 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. By Walter Lecky. “The figures 
who move in rugged grandeur through these pages are as 
fresh and unspoiled in their way as the good folk of 
Drumtochty.” 

CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. By Mrs. W. M. Bert- 
holds. “A story of which the spirit is so fine and the 
Catholic characters so nobly conceived.” 


8 


Continuation Library 


YOU SUBSCRIBE FOR FOUR NEW 
NOVELS A YEAR, TO BE MAILED 
TO YOU AS PUBLISHED, AND 
RECEIVE BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 
FREE. 

Each year we publish four new novels by the 
best Catholic authors. These novels are interest- 
ing beyond the ordinary — not religious, but Cath- 
olic in tone and feeling. They are issued in the 
best modern style. 

We ask you to give us a standing order for 
these novels. The price is $1.25, which will be 
charged as each volume is issued, and the volume 
sent postage paid. 

As a special inducement for giving us a stand- 
ing order for the novels, we shall include free a 
subscription to Benziger’s Magazine. Benzi gen’s 
Magazine is recognized as the best and hand- 
somest Catholic periodical published, and we are 
sure will be welcomed in every library. The 
regular price of the Magazine is $2.00 a year. 

Thus for $5.00 a year — paid $1.25 at a time 
— you will get four good books and receive in 
addition a year’s subscription to Benzige/s 
Magazine. The Magazine will be continued 
from year to year, as long as the standing order 
for the novels is in force, which will be till 
countermanded. 


9 


'THE FAMOUS 

ROUND TABLE SERIES 

4 VOLUMES, $6.00 
60 Cents Down; 60 Cents a TvLonth. 

On payment of 50 cents you get the books and a free sub- 
scription to Benziger’s Magazine 
The Greatest Stories by the Foremost Catholic Writers in the World 
With Portraits of the Authors, Sketches of their Lives, and 
a List of their Works. Four exquisite volumes, containing the 
masterpieces of 36 of the foremost writers of America, Eng- 
land, Ireland, Germany, and France. Each story complete. 
Open any volume at random and you will find a great story to 
entertain you. 

ESPECIAL O TAKER*** 

In order to place this fine collection of stories in every 
home, we make the following special offer: Send us 50 cents 
and the four fine volumes will be sent to you immediately. 
Then you pay 50 cents each month until $6.00 has been paid. 


LIBRARY OF SHORT STORIES 


BY A BRILLIANT ARRAY OF CATHOLIC AUTHORS 
ORIGINAL STORIES BY 33 WRITERS 


Four handsome volumes and Benziger’s Magazine for a year 
at the Special Price of $5.00 
60 Cents Down; 60 Cent© a Nlontln. 

You get the books at once, and have the use of them while 
making easy payments. Send us only 50 cents, and we will 
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afterwards you pay 50 cents a month. 

STORIES BY 


Anna T. Sadlier 
Mary E. Mannix 
Mary T. Waggaman 
Jerome Harte 
Mary G. Bonesteel 
Magdalen Rock 
Eugenie Uhlrich 
Alice Richardson 
Katharine Jenkins 
Mary Boyle O’Reilly 
Clara Mulholland 
Grace Keon 
Louisa Emily Dobree 
Theo. Gift 
Margaret E. Jordan 
Agnes M. Rowe 
Julia C. Walsh 


Madge Mannix 
Leigh Gordon Giltner 
Eleanor C. Donnelly 
Teresa Stanton 
H. J. Carroll 

Rev. T. J. Livingstone, S.J. 
Marion Ames Taggart 
Maurice Francis Egan 
Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 
Mrs. Francis Chadwick 
Catherine L. Meagher 
Anna Blanche McGill 
Mary Catherine Crowley 
Katharine Tynan Hinkson 
Sallie Margaret O’Malley 
Emma Howard Wight 


10 


900 pages 500 Illustrations 

A GREAT OFFER ! 

THE LIFE OF OUR LORD 

AND 

SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST 

And of His Virgin Mother Mary 

FROM THE ORIGINAL OF 

L. C. BUSINGER, LL.D. 

BY 

Rev. RICHARD BRENNAN, LL.D. 


Quarto, half morocco, full gilt side, gilt edges, 
900 pages, 500 illustrations in the text 
and 32 full-page illustrations by 

M. FEUERSTEIN 

PRICE NET $10.00 

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to you immediately. Then you pay $1.00 
a month till $10.00 is paid. 

This is not only a Life of Christ and of His 
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history of God’s Church from Adam to the end 
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contains a popular dogmatic theology and a real 
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food for the soul. 


11 


THE BEST STORIES AND ARTICLES 


1000 Illustrations a Year 


BEfiZIDEKS MWSAZIME 


The Popular Catholic Family Monthly 


RECOMMENDED BY 70 ARCHBISHOPS AND BISHOPS 
Subscription, $ 2.00 a Year 


What Benziger’s Magazine Gives its Readers : 

Three complete novels of absorbing interest— equal to 
three books selling at $1.25 each. 

Fifty complete stories by the best writers — equal to a 
book of 300 pages selling at $1.25. 

One thousand beautiful illustrations. 

Forty large reproductions of celebrated paintings. 

Twenty articles — equal to a book of 150 pages — on travel 
and adventure ; on the manners, customs and home- 
life of peoples ; on the haunts and habits of animals. 

Twenty articles — equal to a book of 150 pages — on historic 
events, times, places, important industries. 

Twenty articles— equal to a book of 150 pages— on the 
fine arts: celebrated art 1 ' -b and their paintings, 
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ered at home and abroad, helpful hints for home 
workers, household column, cooking recipes, etc. 

“Current Events,” the important happenings over the 
whole world, described with pen and pictures. 

Twelve prize competitions, with valuable prizes. 





NOV 9 1912 


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